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When Love is Love 













WHEN LOVE 


1 

| IS LOVE 1 

1 


A NOVEL 


BY 


KATE LANGLEY BOSHER 


NEW YORK & WASHINGTON 

The Neale Publishing Company 

1904 




t 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 


Two Copies Received 


JAN 22 1904 

n 

\ Copyright. Entry 
>v^. I C\V°C 

Class xxc. No. 



COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY KATE 


E LANGLEY 

Lrd /idte- * 


BOSHER 

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J 9 


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1 • 

« « * * 

1 « « 

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• ••••♦• 


« • • • 
• » 

» • 

• • > • 


* » • 



TO MY MOTHER 





CHAPTER I 


The little clock on the mantel struck two very 
softly. The big clock in the church nearby 
rang out the number loudly, while from the 
floor below the two strokes sounded clear and 
distinct. 

Notwithstanding this, no sign of separating 
for the night was made by the occupants of the 
room in which the first clock had struck, for so 
eagerly were they discussing a remarkable 
thing that had happened to one of their number, 
that the lateness of the hour passed unnoticed, 
or with no comment made upon it. 

“If we were to read about this in a book we 
would think it a highly-colored piece of fic- 
tion/’ said the youngest looking of the quar- 
tet, leaning forward and unfastening the but- 
tons of her shoes as she spoke. “I always did 
want to be like somebody in a book, and to be 
sister to somebody is next to being it yourself. 
Hurrah for the old maid!” and she threw first 
one shoe and then the other in the air, and fol- 
lowed it with her hat, which, however, she did 
aim toward the couch. 

“Let me see it again, Portia,” said the bru- 
nette of the party, a tall, slender girl, with 


8 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


earnest, deep-set eyes. “It sounds so newspa- 
perish that I can’t exactly take it in.” 

She took the paper held out to her and 
scanned it closely. 

“Thirty thousand dollars and twenty acres 
of land don’t make a Lady Croesus of anybody, 
but it’s a lift in that direction.” 

She stopped and held the lawyer-like look- 
ing document closer to the light, while Vir- 
ginia, balancing herself upon the piano stool, 
clasped her hands behind her head and watch- 
ed her intently, as if afraid some flaw might be 
found in this wonderful paper which had been 
brought so unexpectedly to her sister that night. 

“What time did he bring it, Portia?” asked 
Joyce, poking the dead coals in the grate ener- 
getically. “No, you can’t have this poker. I 
don’t blame you for letting the fire go out. If 
I’d had thirty thousand dollars and twenty 
acres of land overlooking the Hudson River 
left me, I’d let anything go out; but as I’m 
not in it, my flesh and blood requires heat,” and 
she punched the coals so vigorously that the 
few faint sparks left in them flickered entirely 
away. 

The one they called Portia went over to the 
register and opened it, then came back and put 
her hand lightly on Joyce’s shoulder. 

“You are in it, dear. You and Virginia and 
Elizabeth are in it just as much as I, but we 
must not talk about it any more to-night. For 
nearly three hours we’ve been going over it, 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


9 


and we’ve got the rest of our lives in which to 
enjoy it, and now every one of you must go to 
bed.” 

“But can’t we do something first in honor of 
the occasion?” protested Elizabeth. “Can’t we 
celebrate in some way? I suppose it wouldn’t 
do to drink to the old lady’s health as long as 
she is dead, but we can drink to her departure. 
Wait a minute.” 

She slipped out of the room and was back 
again almost instantly, with a bottle in her 
hand. 

“Black Mammy gave it to me when I first 
left home,” she explained, holding it up. “She 
made it herself, and said it was good for pains 
and things. I don’t know what it is,” she went 
on, pressing the bottle between her knees and 
pulling with all her might on the cork-screw, 
“but I know it’s good. I think it’s apple 
brandy, but it may just as likely be anything 
else. I’m not an authority on drinks, but drunk 
this must be to-night.” 

She poured some of the contents of the bottle 
into four little glasses and handed one to each 
of the girls, who involuntarily sniffed it before 
tasting. 

“I think it’s blackberry wine,” said Virginia. 
“I took some once when I was sick, and it smelt 
just like this.” 

“It’s scuppernong,” said Joyce, and she held 
her glass up to the light and surveyed it criti- 
cally. 


10 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“Well, it’s all right, whatever it is,” inter- 
rupted Elizabeth. “But you haven’t guessed, 
Portia.” 

Portia smiled slightly. 

“It’s huckleberry bounce, and it’s a pity to 
waste it; but if Elizabeth insists we can each 
take a little. What is the toast, Elizabeth ?” 
and Portia held her glass expectantly. 

“To old maids in general, and this deceased 
one in particular ! May she find above, all she 
missed below.” 

“And may all spinsters who have money re- 
member others who have none!” added Joyce, 
taking a good mouthful. “Next.” 

“To lonely ladies — otherwise, old maids ! 
May there be no boarding-houses in heaven.” 
Virginia drained her glass. “Now, Portia, it’s 
your turn.” 

The latter smiled slightly again. 

“You’ve given me an idea,” she said, and she 
touched each glass lightly with her own. 

“To Spinstervilla, the future home of four 
maiden ladies ! May it resist love, refuse mat- 
rimony, and belong to just us for a while — a 
little while at least.” 

The glasses were touched to lips as if not 
understanding, and then Virginia’s fell to the 
floor. 

“Do you mean we’re going to have a home of 
our own — a real home ? Is that what you mean, 
Portia?” and Virginia tried hard to keep her 
voice from trembling. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


II 


The older sister took the younger one in her 
arms for just a minute and kissed the rippling 
brown hair softly. 

“That is what I hope/’ she said gently ; “and 
now to bed, every one of you. To-morrow we 
will begin again, but not another word to- 
night.” 


CHAPTER II 


It was a remarkable thing that had happened, 
and the happening meant much, very much, to 
those most nearly affected by it. 

The girls had gone to the opera, and Portia, 
glad to have a quiet evening alone, had just 
seated herself comfortably with a book when 
some one knocked at the door. At first she 
hesitated to say come in. She was very tired, 
and to lose this hour or two of rest was irri- 
tating. 

The handle of the door turned, however, and 
a head was poked cautiously inside. 

“What’s the matter? Can’t I come in?” said 
a voice, and before Portia could answer, the 
owner of it was inside the room and shaking 
hands with her in an unusual fashion and with 
very unnecessary energy. 

“The girls are out, Brydon,” she said, smil- 
ing a little at his peculiar greeting, “and I’m 
unutterably stupid, so please don’t stay.” 

For reply, her visitor tossed his overcoat on 
a chair opposite and pulled out a paper from 
an inside pocket and laid it on the table. 

“I’m in luck that you’re by yourself,” he said, 
coming over and pushing her into a big chair. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


13 


“Sit down. I know you’re dead tired, but I’ve 
something here that will make you forget it,” 
and he picked up the paper he had just put 
down and tossed it in the air. “I jumped the 
Perrys’ dinner to-night as soon as I decently 
could,” he continued, “and I’ve an engagement 
at 10.30, but I had to tell you about it first,” and 
again the mysterious paper was taken up, 
opened, glanced over and once more folded 
carefully ; but this time he did not put it out of 
his hands. 

“Tell me about what?” asked Portia a little 
nervously. “Has anything happened ?” 

Brydon laughed joyously. 

“A very nice thing has happened, I think. 
I’ve a splendid piece of news for you, my lady. 
It isn’t such a big thing, but it will be such a 
help, and I’m so tremendously glad for you 
that if it were Christmas or the Fourth of July 
I’d go out and fire off something, but as it’s 
early October I’ll take it out in a smoke. May 
I?” 

He went over to the mantel, and lighting a 
cigar took a whiff, then laid it down and came 
back to the table. 

“You remember the Miss Carter who died 
last week?” he began slowly. “Well, it is about 
her that I have come to tell you something to- 
night.” 

A relieved look broke over Portia’s face. 
“You frightened me, Brydon. You looked so 
important and mysterious when you came in 


1 4 WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 

that I thought something was the matter. Has 
poor old Miss Carter left me her parrot ?” 
And she leaned back carelessly. 

Brydon laughed joyously again. 

“She has for a fact; but you needn’t worry. 
The parrot died the day after the funeral.” 

Portia’s look of amazement was sobering and 
Brydon brought his chair up closer to hers. 

“I don’t wonder you’re shocked. It takes 
nerve to leave a parrot to any one. However, 
old Miss Carter did the decent thing. The 
parrot wasn’t the only remembrance she left 
you. To Virginia she bequeathes, as she ex- 
presses it, her two diamond rings and a thou- 
sand dollars with which to buy her wedding 
clothes, and to you thirty thousand dollars’ 
worth of United States bonds and twenty acres 
of land overlooking the Hudson River.” 

Brydon stopped, for the sudden whiteness of 
Portia’s face frightened him. He got up and 
stood in front of her, then began to shake her 
hands vigorously. 

“Get that look off your face, Portia, and 
smile, laugh, cry, hurrah, or do something to 
show your appreciation of the old lady’s love 
for you ! I thought I had such a jolly piece of 
news for you that you’d dance with delight, and 
you look, instead, like a ghost. Can’t you say 
something, do something, make some sort of a 
noise ?” 

Portia’s throat made a little gurgling sound 
and the color came slowly back in her face, but 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


15 

for a moment she could not speak; then she 
looked up so appealingly in Brydon’s face that 
the latter felt his heart-strings pulled tightly. 

“Are you sure, very sure, there is no mistake 
about this, Brydon?” 

“Very sure, Miss Deming,” and he bowed 
as if to a new and desirable client. “Parker let 
me make a copy of that part of the will relating 
to you and Virginia, and I’ve brought it up for 
you to read over at your pleasure. Parker was 
Miss Carter’s lawyer and had charge of her es- 
tate. She had a pretty big pile of money, I be- 
lieve, and left most of it to hospitals and things, 
but the little clause about you will be her best 
hope of heaven. 

“I’ll see you to-morrow and talk to you more 
fully about it,” he went on presently. “Didn’t 
have but ten minutes to-night, but I wanted you 
to know as soon as possible. The will was just 
probated to-day, and I told Parker I’d per- 
sonally notify you concerning your part in it.” 
He held out his hand to say good-night. 

“The tide has turned at last,” he said cheer- 
ily. “You’ve been the pluckiest woman God 
ever made, Portia, and it’s time for the turning ; 
good-night,” and in a moment he was gone. 

And Portia, standing with the paper in her 
hands, waited until she heard his footsteps in 
the street below before she began to read the 
copy of the will which he had left with her, and 
which would make so great and wonderful a 
change in her life. 


CHAPTER III 


Born of a name old and honored, into an at- 
mosphere of culture inherited from generations 
of distinguished ancestors, with health and 
beauty in full measure and with every resource 
at her command to develop a naturally brilliant 
mind, Portia Deming stood on her twenty-third 
birthday upon the threshold of a future which 
promised but an ever-widening increase of the 
happiness of the past. On her twenty-fourth 
she was in New York struggling to earn her 
daily bread. 

The revolution had been so sudden, so com- 
plete, that henceforth the old life belonged to a 
woman that was dead — the new one to a crea- 
ture who was strange to herself. In one year 
death had claimed, almost upon the eve of her 
wedding day, the man she was to have married. 
Three months later her father had died, and in 
settling up the estate it was discovered that bad 
investments had caused heavy shrinkages in 
his assets, and from being a rich woman she 
found herself a poor one. 

The beautiful colonial home, which for gen- 
erations had been lived in by the Demings, was 
for a few months after her father’s death still 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


J 7 


hers ; but at the end of that time came the final 
toss of fate, and it was burned to the ground, 
with little saved but the plate and portraits and 
a few pieces of furniture. 

There was nothing now to be taken save Vir- 
ginia, the little sister. And had it not been for 
this little sister, who had been put into her arms 
when her mother died a few days after the 
baby's birth, she would gladly have ended the 
pain of it all and lain down in the church-yard 
by the side of those she had so passionately 
loved, and who had loved her so passionately in 
return — but for her she must live and work. 

The old plantation home in Virginia was 
now a thing of the past, and the place intoler- 
able through its associations. So with a horror 
of what life would mean there under new con- 
ditions, she left it, and in the heart of New 
York sought, with the throb and stir and action 
of its restless life, to dull the bitter memories 
which so completely filled her that they some- 
times threatened reason itself. 

Virginia, who was twelve years younger than 
Portia, was put in a school outside the city, 
and the struggle to live began in earnest when 
it was found that their small amount of money 
would be but little more than sufficient to edu- 
cate and give her the musical training necessary 
to properly develop the voice which was later 
to be her means of livelihood. 

The new existence began for Portia in a typi- 
cal boarding-house, where everything she most 


l8 WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 

hated was predominantly conspicuous, and 
where the people were equally as hopeless as 
the place. But in proud endurance she made no 
comment or let any one imagine she was other- 
wise than content with her present surround- 
ings, and in silence lived her life apart. 

Loving the beautiful things of life, craving 
its brilliant and cultured side, accustomed to its 
refinements and luxuries, these new experiences 
cut into the quick of her soul, and she knew 
not how to adapt herself to them. Beyond 
a mere bowing acquaintance she knew only one 
woman in the house besides the landlady. 

She had seen something of this one because 
their rooms adjoined and because she was sick, 
and as Portia thought rather poor and friend- 
less; but with the others there was nothing in 
common and she kept herself aloof, scarcely 
knowing the names of those who sat at the table 
with her. 

She had begun at once to work with her pen, 
and night after night she wrote steadily, care- 
fully, brilliantly, and day after day her work 
was — courteously sometimes, discourteously at 
others — returned to her, and the future looked 
very dark. 

With dogged persistency she kept on, but at 
the end of her first year she had not had a sin- 
gle article accepted, and the realization was in- 
evitable that she had made a splendid success 
of failure. 

“Write something that will make people feel, 
Portia,” said Virginia one day, “and let som$- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


*9 


body else make them just think. Play some 
kind of a tune on their hearts and let their heads 
alone for a while. If I knew how to write, I 
think that’s what I’d do.” 

With characteristic common sense, Portia 
faced her failure bravely. Virginia was right. 
To write of happiness when life had denied it; 
of joy when there was no joy; of love when 
love was dead, had seemed beyond her, and in 
choosing her subjects she had taken those 
which were farthest from the experiences clos- 
est to her, and the right ring was lacking in 
everything she had written. That she wrote 
well she knew, equally as well as many others, 
but no better ; and until she could do something 
more forcibly, or more originally, or more de- 
sirably than it had yet been done, she had no 
right, perhaps, to hope for a hearing. 

After Virginia left, she took the piles of 
manuscript, which represented the work of a 
year, and filled the grate to the full with them ; 
and as she watched them blaze and burn and 
blacken, she knew that hope and ambition and 
pride were being put to a test that was worm- 
wood and gall to her nature, and she was con- 
scious of being tired — tired unto death of the 
fight she was making with life. 

After a while she took Virginia’s advice, 
however, and her first accepted manuscript was 
a story for children, a story based upon one 
that had been told her in her own childhood, 
and from that time on she realized she had 


20 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


found the field in which she could do her best 
work. It was not the field she would have 
chosen, but it was one she could make a success 
of, for deep down in her heart was a passionate 
love for babyhood and little children, and the 
vitality and freshness she had felt were lacking 
before came into her work, and came uncon- 
sciously and naturally. 

With the first slight wedge of success came 
after a while a little larger one, and she was 
given a position on the staff of the magazine 
for little folks which had accepted her first ar- 
ticle. The salary was not large, but the place 
put her in touch with other writers and prom- 
ised to be a sort of training school, and she 
accepted it gladly, attending faithfully to its 
duties by day, and late into the night writing 
for other papers and periodicals, and with a 
slow but ever-increasing measure of success. 

Three years had been passed in this way, 
and it was at the beginning of the fourth that 
she one day met her cousin, Brydon Field, face 
to face on the street. She had been looking in 
a store window, and turning saw him staring 
at her with such doubt and wonder and surprise 
in his eyes that she smiled and held out her hand 
and spoke to him. 

Brydon never exactly forgave her for those 
years spent in the city without his knowledge. 
It cut deeper than Portia guessed that she 
should think the change in her condition would 
make a change in his friendship, and the hurt 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


21 


was long in healing, that she had so treated him 
and placed him with the rest. 

After a few days his mother, Portia’s aunt, 
called — drove up in her handsome brougham — 
and greeted her with all the polite surprise the 
occasion justified, and after she had gone Por- 
tia took up her card and smiled, smiled at the 
name upon it and what it represented in New 
York society. She perfectly understood that 
her aunt’s world and her world were now two 
very different places, and that their paths would 
continue to diverge was but the natural se- 
quence of their environment. 

Her aunt had always been intolerable to Por- 
tia. She had sold her birthright of beauty and 
blood for a million-dollar mess of pottage, and 
the transaction had seared her soul unbecom- 
ingly. That she could be the mother of Brydon 
was a misfit of nature. Brydon rang true ever, 
but his lady-mother was a snob, and Portia was 
ashamed of her, and as she tore her card up and 
threw it away she meritally disposed of her aunt 
in much the same manner. 

The years went by and Portia did better and 
better work, and her pen-name gradually be- 
came a familiar one in the literary world. She 
still wrote mostly for children, however, and it 
was while looking for some one to illustrate a 
volume of her stories that she stumbled upon 
Joyce, and the acquaintance became friendship 
immediately through one of those sudden cur- 
rents which cause instant recognition of one’s 
own kind. 


22 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Joyce and Elizabeth were strugglers also, and 
by a happy accident they had made together 
the plunge from sheltered Southern homes into 
the whirl of New York life, and when Portia 
found them both were pretty well spent in their 
efforts to keep their feet in the straight and 
narrow path that would not lead to success, and 
both were thinking miserably of turning them 
southwards again. 

“Of course I will illustrate your work/’ said 
Joyce when Portia approached her. “I would 
paint road fences just now and only charge half 
price for it ; but how did you find me ?” 

Portia told her, and, like all true Southern- 
ers, before they separated each had discovered 
that they knew many of the other’s relatives, 
and without further formality they proceeded 
to be friends. 

Joyce was a South Carolinian, Elizabeth a 
Georgian. They had met on the train on their 
way to the American Mecca, and as each was 
desperately lonely and afraid, they had joined 
forces and together had worked and waited — 
and not yet won — when discovered by Portia. 
Both were parentless and poor, and Portia’s 
understanding heart went out to them strongly 
when she saw the splendid fight they were mak- 
ing. And before they exactly understood what 
the change would mean, they found themselves 
living together in an apartment with some pre- 
tense of home about it, and with some promise 
of success in the new line of work which each 
was about to begin. 


CHAPTER IV 


It was a happy coincidence that Portia should 
have stumbled across Joyce and Elizabeth just 
as Virginia’s school life was to end. A board- 
ing-house existence was not meant for Vir- 
ginia, and the hope of a home for her was one 
that Portia had long been secretly cherishing in 
her heart. 

The change in the manner of living was just 
in time for the others also, for Elizabeth’s cour- 
age and cheerfulness had been tested almost be- 
yond human endurance, and Joyce’s sunny tem- 
perament and confident faith were daily becom- 
ing more and more beclouded by the monotony 
of their failure to do the right thing. 

Virginia was eighteen when her college life 
ended, and the record she left behind her was 
one of which Portia was very proud. In all 
her classes she had done fine work; but it was 
to her music she had given her best energies, 
and the future held out to her tempting possi- 
bilities in the way of a musical career. 

She was wiser than her masters, for though 
they predicted for her a success, after a few 
more years of study, that would startle the 
American world if she would consent to go in 


24 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


for opera, she only shook her head and laughed 
and refused to consider it. 

“I have no talent for opera, and no taste for 
the life,” she had said, “and if I tried it I 
should fail. I am going in for oratorio and 
church music, and you will see that I am right.” 
And urge, plead, protest as they might, she was 
never turned from her purpose. 

They were very earnest bread winners — 
these four young women who found themselves 
living together after a very short acquaintance ; 
but that each had entered her right field of work 
when first they joined forces, was by no means 
certain. 

Elizabeth was a painter of pictures who 
would never be an artist. Her color sense was 
faulty, her creative faculty limited, and her 
drawing too absolutely perfect to be other than 
mechanical; and yet for years she had studied 
and worked persistently, and never once ad- 
mitted she was on the wrong road to the suc- 
cess she was so determined to win. 

To copy well, or to make a mechanical de- 
sign with any degree of accuracy was almost 
impossible with Joyce, but her baby pictures 
were full of grace and charm and beauty of 
pose ; her flowers and animals and bits of illus- 
tration showed life and power; and her color- 
ing was deliciously warm and soft and tender. 
But up to the time Portia found her she had 
been floundering painfully in black and white, 
giving only odd moments to the work for which 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


25 


she had positive genius, and back-breaking 
hours daily to that for which she had barely 
ordinary capacity. 

Both Elizabeth and Joyce had been too close 
to their work to see its real faults, and at first 
they were hardly ready to accept the change 
which Portia most promptly pointed out was 
necessary to be made if they wished to succeed. 

“But one can make so much money in indus- 
trial work,” protested Joyce when the matter 
was being talked over with her. “Fm no art- 
ist, Portia; I never expect to paint pictures. 
But I can draw a little, and I want to make 
money. Oh, isn’t it horrible to be so poor ! I 
know a girl who gets a big salary designing for 
just one house here in New York, and if I 
could make what she does I’d sell my whole 
artistic nature and design beer bottles and 
flower pots and kitchen forks, or anything else 
for which there was a demand, for I must make 
money — I must !” 

“But you will never make it along industrial 
lines, dear,” answered Portia. “And it is be- 
cause I want to help you that I am hurting you 
by telling you this. We each have our lessons 
to learn. I have had mine and a very bitter one 
it was, but if I had not learned it I would not 
be here to-day. You have more than talent for 
a certain kind of work, but not for the kind you 
have mistakenly chosen. You and Elizabeth 
have strangely mixed your gifts up, and if you 
don’t face the truth and find out where the diffi- 


2 6 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


culty lies, you will be failures, both of you ; and 
you shall not be that if I can help you, even if 
I hurt you in the helping.” 

For a while Joyce had sat in silence, nibbling 
the end of her pencil, then she got up impul- 
sively and threw it out of the window. 

“ I don’t deserve your interest and care and 
patience,” she said a little brokenly, “and I’m 
horribly stubborn and silly I know; but I did 
think there was a fortune in door-knobs and 
chandeliers and wall-paper, and all that sort of 
thing, and I wanted to get rich and stop this 
struggling. I’m so tired of being poor and buy- 
ing substitutes for what I really want; and to 
think I’ve wasted all these years on a mistake 
is — ” 

She stopped abruptly and her lips quivered. 
She bit them to keep them still, then walked 
over to the table on which lay her drawing 
materials, and began to tear up one of her de- 
signs. 

Portia put out her hand and stopped her. 

“Give it to me,” she said kindly ; “I want to 
keep some proof of my belief that you were not 
meant for this kind of thing. A year from 
now you can see it again, and if you do not 
agree with me, I will beg your pardon and see 
that it brings a good price.” 

For some time they sat together and talked ; 
talked of all sorts of possibilities, of ways and 
means, of how the best preparation should be 
made for the work Joyce consented to try. And 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


2 7 


then Portia showed her a magazine advertise- 
ment which offered a prize for the best design 
for a wedding gown, and as she did so she 
laughed to see the light that came in her eyes. 

“Door-knobs and andirons and wall-paper 
would never make you look like that, my lady/’ 
she said brightly. “You were meant to create, 
not copy; to originate, not develop, and now 
if you win this prize I think there is a chance 
of your getting something permanent from the 
firm which offers it. This may not be high art, 
but if it fills a need it will perhaps open the 
way to another line of work which may be an 
advance upon this. One of the hardest things 
in life to accept is that success is but continual 
development. It is rarely reached at a leap, and 
you, and I, and all the world must serve our 
apprenticeship faithfully if in the end we would 
win anything worth having.” 

To both Portia’s and Virginia’s surprise, 
after some slight protest, Elizabeth took much 
more readily than they had expected the for- 
mer’s suggestion that she devote herself to in- 
dustrial work and for the present, at least, give 
up oil. 

“I have known for some time it was all a 
mistake my trying to paint,” she said when 
talking it over ; “but my stubborn pride refused 
to admit I was beaten. I didn’t even love it, 
though I pretended to ; but this I do love,” and 
she held up a piece of paper with a tall antique 
mantel drawn upon it. “I’ve a thousand de- 


28 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


signs in my head which are buzzing to get out, 
and if they ever amount to anything I will owe 
it to you both for turning me around and start- 
ing me in the right direction.” And Elizabeth — 
proud, independent, cynical, and warm-hearted 
to an intense degree — walked abruptly out of 
the room, lest she show too plainly how deeply 
she felt the mistakes and failures of her years 
of work and worry. 

The summer passed quietly, and the fall 
opened with a fair measure of success for each. 
Virginia was still working hard at her music, 
but in addition to her studying she was earn- 
ing a comfortable income from the church and 
concert engagements which she had been for- 
tunate enough to make almost immediately. 
The peculiar quality of her voice, with its ex- 
quisite tenderness and richness, had been rec- 
ognized at once, and the fear of the future was 
being lifted largely from Portia’s heart as she 
realized that if health and strength continued, 
Virginia would soon be able to make her own 
terms in the musical world which wanted that 
which she had to give. 

Elizabeth, too, had been fortunate with her 
antique furniture designs, many of which were 
made from the originals she remembered so 
well in her Southern home, or in the homes of 
her friends, and in addition to other work she 
was regularly employed by a large house in the 
city to do some designing along special lines for 
their particular use. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


2 9 


Joyce’s child-like delight in winning the prize 
for the wedding gown was increased tenfold by 
an order from the firm which gave it, which 
paid her well ; and what with some illustrations 
to be made for holiday work, and a magazine 
cover that had been accepted, she was radiantly 
happy. 

Portia was happy, too, for her book was hav- 
ing a good sale and the future looked less for- 
midable than it had done for years past. There 
was no prospect of rest, however, for the live- 
lihood of each depended almost entirely upon 
her own labors, and until something could be 
laid aside, persistent and patient work must be 
continued. 

Their first winter together began happily, but 
before it was over a change had to be made in 
their apartments ; and in the four years that fol- 
lowed it was found necessary to make frequent 
changes in household arrangements, with the 
result that each was thoroughly tired of this un- 
settled and unsatisfactory manner of life. 

When, therefore, Brydon Field came with 
the wonderful news of Portia’s legacy, it was 
at a point when they were longing unutterably 
for a home where light and air and sunshine 
were not at such a costly premium, and where 
they could stretch out their arms without 
knocking over something or somebody; and 
where, too, the dust and noise and restless life 
of the city could be forgotten in the sweep of 
fields and the fragrance of fresh flowers. 


3 <> 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


The four years together had done much for 
the development of each. Success and failure 
had played a part in the work of all four, but 
success had won, and each was beginning to 
feel that her name stood for something in the 
particular world in which she worked, and that 
recognition had been honestly won. 

They rarely ever spoke to outsiders of their 
first struggles and early efforts. “People are 
not interested in other people’s troubles,” Vir- 
ginia said wisely one evening as they were 
laughing over some of the days that had been 
so dark and hopeless in the beginning of their 
new life. “We like to look at those who have 
gotten on top, or at least to a point high enough 
to be visible, just to see if they have any extra 
hands or feet. But how they got there, or if 
they hurt those same hands and feet in doing it, 
isn’t interesting. Everybody has his own share 
of struggles, and anybody else’s can be dis- 
pensed with,” saying which she stretched out 
full length on the couch and clasped her hands 
under her head, and watched a fly crawl lazily 
along the ceiling. 

“You’ve been reading ‘The Ways of the 
World,’ ” said Joyce laughing. “Horrible, 
isn’t it?” 

“Horrible because it’s so deadly true. Peo- 
ple don’t even want to read about the expe- 
riences of those who fight for life inch by inch. 
Details are superfluous, it seems, except in mat- 
ters of marriage and dinner parties. There are 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


31 


some things one doesn’t care to have a search- 
light thrown on, and the man or woman who 
writes or talks too much about the dreary side 
of life will surely be avoided after a while.” 

“Right, Miss Deming, quite right; though 
you are the best listener to other people’s woes 
I ever stumbled across,” and Joyce threw a 
shawl over Virginia’s feet and tucked it warmly 
around them. 

The latter smiled and turned over on her 
side. 

“You have never poured any of yours into 
my waiting ears, though I’ve been constantly 
ready to receive them. However, I hope they 
won’t be long or numerous. It would be a mis- 
take for you to have woes and things, Joyce — 
you weren’t made for them.” And Virginia put 
her hand under her cheek and looked at her 
critically and with a warm light of love in 
her eyes. 

“No beaux, no woes,” laughed Joyce. “By 
avoiding the former, I dispense with the lat- 
ter. Be wise enough to follow my example 
and keep the bloom on your cheek.” 

Portia put down the magazine she was read- 
ing and turned to Virginia. 

“Do you know what day this is, dear?” she 
asked, handing her a calendar. “Exactly ten 
years ago to-night we reached New York,” she 
continued, turning to the others. “Virginia 
was just a little girl, and now — ” 


32 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“She's an old maid,” interrupted Virginia; 
“twenty-two and still earning her living, and 
likely to keep it up.” 

She sat up as she spoke, and looked at the 
calendar carefully. Ten years was a good part 
of one's life. She glanced at Portia and her 
throat grew tight. 

“We would not care to tell all the experiences 
of that time, would we?” laughed the latter, 
taking the calendar out of Virginia's hands. 
“Two years of it were spent at Mrs. Johnson’s 
boarding-house, two in Mrs. Register’s, one at 
‘The Madison,' and one at ‘The Waverly,' and 
four in various spots, since we formed our as- 
sociation for pleasure, profit, and protection. I 
think a volume could be written of each place.” 

She took up her magazine as if to continue 
her article, but Virginia put her hand upon it. 

“I wish you could have seen her when she 
first came to New York,” she said, turning to 
Joyce as if she had not heard the last words. 
“She was so beautiful” — and she looked at Por- 
tia gravely. 

“ Was beautiful?' ” repeated Joyce. “ Was 
beautiful ?’ Portia is the most beautiful woman 
I have ever seen, and the handsomest and most 
patrician. Some day I am going to paint your 
picture and call it ‘The Aristocrat' — may I?” 
and Joyce sat down suddenly upon the stool at 
Portia’s feet and rested her arms in her lap. 

Not even a faint flicker of color came into 
Portia’s face at Joyce’s extravagant words. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


33 


“There is a little rhyme you should remem- 
ber, dear,” she said quietly, running her hand 
gently through the soft waves of red-brown 
hair. 


“ Test men believe your tale untrue, 

Keep probability in view/ 

“A woman of nearly thirty-five, whose 
weight is barely an hundred and twenty pounds, 
with a height of five feet eight, would hardly 
be considered handsome,” and she smiled good- 
naturedly. “A white-haired woman, too. I 
don’t believe even Virginia remembers when 
my hair was as black as Elizabeth’s. I have 
almost forgotten it myself.” 

“I remember perfectly,” interrupted Vir- 
ginia. “It began to turn after — just before we 
left home, and it turned white all at once. 
Don’t you know how people used to stare at 
you, and once old Miss Carpenter asked you 
whether it was sickness or trouble or age, and 
you said age. You were twenty-seven at the 
time. I remember that too.” 

“It is the most perfect white hair I have ever 
seen,” said Elizabeth, who was supposed to be 
reading, “and Joyce is right. It doesn’t mat- 
ter that you don’t know how beautiful you are, 
but what she says is true. You radiate some- 
thing, just like Virginia sings — something one 
feels even more than one sees. I have often 
wondered what it is,” and she looked at Portia 


34 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


as a scientist would a rare specimen he had long 
been puzzling over. 

Portia raised her hand protestingly. 

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “The Portia that 
once was glad to be beautiful is dead — the one 
you know is only her shadow. Where is your 
design for the chandeliers, Elizabeth; and the 
miniature you have made of Mrs. Craigmore’s 
baby, Joyce? You have not shown them to me,” 
and she turned down the light a little and 
shaded it so it would not fall on Virginia’s face. 

The latter shook her head at the two girls as 
a signal to change the conversation. As inti- 
mate and tender and untiring as Portia ever 
was to them, the past was a subject she never 
mentioned. Nor would she suffer its discussion 
by the others, and if by chance it was ever 
brought up she would talk of something else, 
and in a way that was always understood. 

They knew very fully the life that had been 
lived in New York, but only from Virginia had 
they heard anything concerning the one spent 
in their Southern home. The great sorrows 
that had so colored and changed her life had 
never been mentioned by Portia. The chap- 
ters of love and hope which they represented 
were closed forever, and only the memory of 
what might have been was left to sometimes 
surge over her and so torture her, that she 
thanked God for the struggle of earning her 
daily bread, for that, at least, denied her the 
time to dwell upon the past. 


CHAPTER V 


Every detail of Portia’s acquaintance with 
the eccentric spinster had to be told again and 
again to Joyce and Elizabeth on the day after 
the news of the legacy had been received; and 
though there was little to tell, its interest was 
not diminished by its meagreness. 

After Miss Carter left the boarding-house 
where Portia and Virginia had first met her, 
they had seen but little of her. Only an occa- 
sional visit kept them in touch with one an- 
other, and that she should have remembered 
them in her will was but another evidence of 
the happening of the unexpected. Portia had 
been kind to her because she thought her feeble 
and friendless, but never had she talked to her 
of her past life or the uncertainties of the new 
one she was entering; and that she was inter- 
ested in either was a thought that had not oc- 
curred to her. 

From Virginia, however, Miss Carter had 
learned the story of Portia’s life, drawing it out 
question by question until she knew all about 
the beautiful old home in Virginia which had 
been burned to the ground ; knew of the loss of 
their money, and the death first of Portia’s be- 


3 ^ 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


trothed and later of her father ; and knew also 
how bravely and proudly these reverses had 
been borne, and with no word of complaint ever 
uttered concerning them. 

All this and more Virginia had told her, but 
not for years had she remembered the telling. 
And not until the will had been read over and 
over again did she recall the questions that Miss 
Carter used to ask her concerning their former 
life in the South and their outlook for the one 
in the North. 

“That is one time my tongue didn’t make 
trouble,” she said gaily the morning after Bry- 
don had brought the news of the will, “and I’m 
very much obliged to my unruly member, very 
much obliged,” and she went over to the piano 
and played a few bars vigorously. 

“St. James calls that woman’s weapon many 
other things besides an unruly member — that’s 
his mild term for it,” said Joyce, sitting down 
in her favorite position in front of the fire and 
holding out her hands to the blaze. “I sup- 
pose he was thinking about Virginians’ tongues 
when he said they boasteth great things. You 
can always count on a Virginian doing good 
work in that direction,” and she looked at Vir- 
ginia teasingly. 

“Right,” replied the latter promptly. “Every- 
body knows they have so much more to boast 
about than other people,” and she struck the 
opening bars of “Dixie,” at the same time 
throwing a kiss at Joyce good-naturedly. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


37 


Joyce laughed in spite of herself. Virginia’s 
love for Virginia and Virginians had been one 
of her most pronounced characteristics from 
childhood, and though herself intensely loyal 
and devoted to her State, Portia sometimes 
marveled at the passionate love that Virginia 
felt for it. Its history and traditions, its prin- 
ciples and standards, she had carefully taught 
her, believing her duty unfulfilled did she not 
train her in the ideals of the women of her race, 
and impress her with the fact that hers was a 
noble heritage which only a noble life could 
wear worthily — and that the seed sown had 
fallen on receptive ground was admitted by all. 

“Was Miss Carter a Virginian?” asked 
Joyce, after a moment. “The name sounds 
like it.” 

“I don’t know what she was. I hope she is 
an angel now — a nice, happy angel,” and Vir- 
ginia settled herself on the rug by Joyce and 
gazed absently at the glowing coals. 

The latter laughed indulgently. 

“Next to being a Virginian it is most desir- 
able to be an angel — is that it, Miss Deming?” 
She looked at her teasingly for a moment, then 
leaned over and gave her a sudden kiss. “You 
dear, delightful little provincial! To think of 
breathing New York air for ten years and still 
being so intensely local! You are hopeless and 
impossible; but I warn you now, if you ever 
change, we will part company forever.” 

Before Virginia could answer, Portia came 
in from a visit to Brydon’s office, and the ex- 


38 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


pression on her face told without words that 
her visit had been satisfactory, and that all was 
well. Her eyes were bright, but there was a 
tired look in them — a worn, relaxed one that 
they had not often noticed before, and their 
hearts filled with a sharp fear. 

Now that there was to be an easing of the 
strain, was overtaxed nature to rebel at last? 
Elizabeth pushed her gently in a chair and 
measured a spoonful of something from a bottle 
on the mantelpiece. 

“Drink this,” she said, handing it to her. “I 
got it yesterday, and it’s warranted to bring 
the dead to life. Something inside of you isn’t 
running right, Portia, and just because you 
have had some money left you it isn’t necessary 
to get sick and fashionable at once.” She spoke 
lightly, but as she handed Portia the glass she 
scanned her face critically. 

“Would you mind telling me what it is?” 
Portia asked, putting the glass down; “and 
why I am taking it? I am not sick, so I hope 
it isn’t medicine.” 

“Oh no, it isn’t medicine,” laughed Eliza- 
beth. “It’s a cure-all, good for things in gen- 
eral, and nothing in particular. However, it’s 
to be taken three times a day until I like your 
looks better, and until you are able to walk as 
far as you did when I first knew you — under- 
stand ?” 

Portia nodded and leaned back contentedly 
in her chair. She had grown suddenly tired, 


when Love is love 


39 


and it was a relief to have something decided 
for her. Ten years of hard, almost unceasing 
labor was beginning to leave its impress upon 
her, and even had this legacy not come, some- 
thing would have had to be done in the way of 
a long rest and perfect relaxation. But, thank 
God, it had come. 

From early morning until Brydon came at 
night the change that this money was to make 
in their lives was discussed over and over again, 
and by supper time they were deep in the details 
of what the new home was to be. Brydon had 
only been in a few moments when Herr Run- 
kel stopped by with a new piece of music for 
Virginia, and following him came Laurie with 
his plans for the Melrose Hospital for Eliza- 
beth to look over. Later Irving dropped in for 
a cup of tea, and to each the wonderful news 
had to be repeated, until Joyce declared it had 
better not be mentioned again for fear it might 
wear out. 

“But you’re not really going to keep that 
piece of property, Portia ?” asked Brydon, hold- 
ing his match and cigar in an interrogatory way 
before lighting the latter. “Thanks, here’s a 
light, Runkel. It’s worth good money, and if 
well invested would bring you a comfortable in- 
come. I don’t see how you can well afford to 
hold it — the taxes alone are a consideration.” 

Virginia looked at Portia anxiously, but the 
latter was unmoved by Brydon’s words. 

“I don’t know the full value of the property,” 
she said quietly, “but if it were twice what I 


4 ° 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


think it is, I still would not sell it — that is, all 
of it. I am going to build a house on it which 
will be a home for us all. Ever since I have 
been in New York I have dreamed of a home 
overlooking the Hudson, and now that the 
chance of having one is mine, I shall not ex- 
change it for dollars and cents. I shall be glad 
to sell a few acres, however, and use the money 
for the house if you think that advisable.” 

“Your house will hardly be in keeping with 
your location and with those around that part 
of the country if you only expect to spend a 
small amount of money on it. Levering’s cost 
$120,000, I have heard, and the Doyles’ about 
$75,000. Bryce, I know, spent over $150,000 
on his, and there are two or three others in 
that neighborhood equally as costly.” 

Herr Runkel’s little eyes bulged bigger and 
bigger as Brydon spoke, then he got up impul- 
sively and shook hands vigorously with Portia. 

“I did not know it was in dat heavenly place 
dat de gude fortune has to you come,” he said 
joyously. “I haf been dere, and it is de most 
beautiful of all places what I haf seen since first 
I come to dis country, and you is a wise woman 
to keep it and live in it and breathe it, and I 
know de home you will haf will be of all de 
most perfect. Breeks and stone do not make 
all of home — it is many, many things else,” and 
overcome by his long speech, he bowed himself 
out in great confusion, leaving the others to 
talk more unreservedly concerning the possibili- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


4 1 


ties of having a home in a neighborhood so ex- 
clusive as to be considered beyond the reach 
of any but the very rich. 

“You can get plenty of electricity there for 
all necessary purposes,” said Irving, as they 
began to go into the details. “There is a big 
plant not very far off, and all the places in the 
neighborhood are supplied by it. The arrange- 
ments in some of those houses are simply per- 
fect. I’ve been through them. If there’s any- 
thing in my line I can do for you, let me know,” 
and he put his arms around Portia and gave her 
a boyish, cousinly kiss. “Good-night, Mummy ; 
awful sorry, but I’ve got to go — God bless you ! 
I wish it were a million instead of this thousand 
or two,” and with a nod to the others he was 
gone. 

“We’re a lucky lot,” observed Joyce. “Mr. 
Brydon Field, of Parker & Field, will see that 
Miss Deming’s interests are well looked after; 
Mr. Irving Mason, the promising young elec- 
trician, will have charge of all electrical mat- 
ters connected with the new establishment, and 
Mr. Laurence Blair, of Royster, Blair & Co., 
will be the architect for the same.” 

“No, he won’t,” interrupted Portia, laughing 
a little at Joyce’s enumeration. “The house I 
want is already designed. If Laurie will help 
me build it, however, I will be more than grate- 
ful,” and she turned toward the young architect 
as if to thank him in advance for the help she 
knew so well was always at her disposal. 


4 * 


When LOVE is love 


Before he could answer she had left the room, 
but was back again almost instantly. 

“Here,” she said quietly, holding out a pic- 
ture to the group around the table ; “here is the 
kind of house I want built,” and she put the 
picture in Virginia’s hands. 

The latter glanced at it, and her face grew 
white. Without a word, she handed it to Bry- 
don. It was a picture of the old home in Vir- 
ginia. 

For a long time Brydon held it in his hand, 
then slowly laid it on the table. 

“That kind of a house will hold its own any- 
where,” he said soberly. “But I can’t imagine 
why you want to leave the city.” 

He walked over to the mantel, struck a match 
and lighted a fresh cigar, and Portia, looking at 
him, saw something in his face that caused her 
own to flush warmly. For a moment she felt 
foolishly weak, then a rush of gladness made 
her heart beat quickly. She dearly loved him, 
and for many years had felt toward him as an 
older sister to a younger brother, and yet not 
until this moment had she realized he was in 
love — with Joyce. 

He did not know what his face was telling as 
he watched the bent heads of the group around 
the table, but she understood that he rather re- 
sented another home-making for her which was 
not of his own planning. She wondered if 
she alone had been blind, or if he had never 
quite realized it until he felt she was becoming 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


43 


absorbed in plans which did not include him. 
Did Joyce herself know? If so, she had con- 
cealed her knowledge well, for their comrade- 
ship had been always of the frankest and most 
wholesome kind, and never had there been, ap- 
parently, anything but the most commonplace 
friendship between them. She looked at Joyce, 
and then again at Brydon, and he, glancing up, 
saw what was written in her eyes, and this time 
it was over him the hot blood ran quickly. He 
threw his cigar in the fire and sat down close by 
her. 

The little group at the table did not notice 
them, nor could they hear their words. 

“You are not the only one who wants a real 
home, Portia,” he said almost under his breath, 
and for the first time she heard a touch of bit- 
terness in his voice. 

“And have you just found out you want 
one?” she asTed. 

“I think I have just found out I am going to 
have one if she will make it for me,” he an- 
swered, and there was a determined ring to his 
words that pleased her mightily. “She would 
not do so now even should this plan of yours 
fail to materialize,” he continued; “but some 
day she will consent, and to win in the end I am 
willing to wait. It is going to mean a fight, 
however.” He stopped abruptly and broke into 
bits a piece of coal, which blazed up brightly. 

“You mean your mother?” and in spite of 
herself Portia’s voice grew suddenly chill. 


44 


\VHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


He nodded, then put the poker aside with 
an impatient gesture. 

“My mother has ambitions/’ and he laughed 
harshly. “I have seen a number of money mar- 
riages in my life. My own home hasn’t been 
a bad example of one, and the flavor isn’t to my 
taste. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe in 
love, notwithstanding I’m considered young 
yet for so doing. But if I can’t marry the 
woman I love, I guess I can do the little jour- 
ney alone.” 

“And you think she would object to your 
marriage with Joyce?” 

Brydon shrugged his shoulders carelessly. 

“I think she would much more cheerfully see 
me buried. She has other plans for me. I shall 
be sorry to disappoint her, but were she ten 
times my mother she could not keep me from 
marrying Joyce if Joyce will marry me. I have 
never asked her” — his voice quivered slightly. 
“She is in your care, Portia. Have I your per- 
mission to ask her to be my wife?” and he held 
out his hand to her. 

She put her own in his, and for a moment 
neither spoke. 

“When you win her for your wife,” she said 
presently, and her eyes were bright with tears, 
“you must wed her from her home — her new 
home, which for a little while, at least, we are 
going to call — Spinstervilla.” 


CHAPTER VI 


The night was a restless one for Portia, and 
late into it she lay with open eyes and ques- 
tioning heart, and persistent thoughts of the 
future. 

Surprises, like misfortunes, rarely come sin- 
gly. and her discovery concerning Brydon’s 
love for Joyce, for the time, at least, quite over- 
shadowed her own good fortune and filled her 
with perplexing doubts concerning its possi- 
ble outcome. Matters of love had by no means 
been an unknown quantity in the busy life of 
their little household; but as the girls had ap- 
parently never taken them seriously, she had 
put aside the thought of their marriage, and 
had hoped, from time to time, that for a little 
while longer they would be content to live to- 
gether. 

Elizabeth was not popular with men in gen- 
eral. Her careless indifference to them often 
made Portia wonder if in her life there was 
not some chapter she kept ever closed; but if 
this were so it was not for her to ask. She 
only knew that if she had learned the meaning 
of love she would drink deep of her knowledge, 
and she and Love would go hand in hand 


4 6 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


through life — the rest of the world might go 
where it chose, she and Love would be enough. 

If in Virginia’s heart there was a single depth 
that had not been bared to Portia’s loving sight, 
neither of them were conscious of it. From her 
school-girl days her love affairs had been fre- 
quent, but they had made no greater impress 
on her than they would have done on the 
heart of a child, and only once had Portia seen 
her perplexed or even hesitating. Through 
friendly affection for a Virginia cousin, a 
young lieutenant in the Army, she had for a 
moment wavered concerning the answer she 
had given, and Portia saw then that her heart 
was still asleep ; but knew that when love should 
waken it, the whole wide world, if weighed, 
would be found wanting, and the ends of the 
earth' would be her home if love but led her 
there. 

With Joyce it was different. A born coquette, 
her experiences weighed lightly on her heart 
and conscience; for if men would make love, 
she was wont to declare, it was not a womanly 
thing to stop them before they started, or imag- 
ine they were going to do it before they began. 
And it was thus she would silence Elizabeth 
when the latter made remarks in general upon 
flirts in particular. 

All this and more ran persistently through 
Portia’s mind as she lay awake through the 
hours of the night and tried to adjust some of 
the possibilities of the future ; but stronger than 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


47 


its fear was her confidence that Brydon was the 
man of all others for Joyce, and Joyce the 
woman of all the world for him. 

Her love for both was deep and strong, and 
for Brydon especially she kept ever a warm and 
tender corner of her heart. As a boy when 
home from college for the holidays, during her 
first visit to his mother, he had proceeded most 
promptly to fall in love with her, and though 
he had long outgrown this phase of his infatua- 
tion, he had given her ever since the loyal and 
devoted affection of a younger brother, and to 
Virginia had ever been as an older and equally 
loving one. He had been abroad at the time Of 
her father’s death, and though he had written 
her frequently afterwards she had not answered 
his letters, and during her first three years in his 
own city she had kept from him all knowledge 
of her whereabouts, knowing full well that his 
mother would not welcome for him the news of 
her being so near, nor wish him to keep up his 
old friendship and affection for her. 

That this same mother would bitterly resent 
his marriage with Joyce, she well knew also. A 
girl who worked for her living, and whose 
name was an unknown one in the world of 
wealth and fashion, would find no welcome in 
her home; and that Joyce, even if she loved 
Brydon, would make no advance to his mother, 
was as certain as that his mother would never 
make one to her. Meekness was no part of 
Joyce’s nature, while independence was strik- 


4 8 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


ingly so, and that Brydon had chosen a path 
which, in the distance, did not look rose-strewn, 
seemed an inevitable conclusion from the in- 
compatibility of two, at least, of the parties con- 
cerned. 

The days, weeks, and months went by, and 
the hope of a home was fast being material- 
ized in the stately looking house which seemed 
to have sprung up suddenly on Portia’s piece 
of property overlooking the river. Its unusual 
style and structure had already begun to attract 
attention from adjoining property owners and 
from casual passers-by as well, and the intoxi- 
cation of home-making was filling its future 
occupants with thrills of delicious anticipation 
and delight. 

Late in the winter Portia had made a hurried 
visit to her aunt in Virginia, and the few pieces 
of furniture, with the plate and portraits that 
had been saved from the fire which had de- 
stroyed her home so many years ago, were sent 
up to the city to be put in proper condition for 
use in the new home. That a compelling sense 
of duty made Portia undertake this little jour- 
ney, Virginia well knew, for though she had 
made frequent visits to her relatives in the 
South, Portia had never once been back to the 
scene of her old life, and that it cost her a strug- 
gle to do so now she understood very well. 

In the spring the house was promised, and 
as the days went by an ever-increasing restless- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


49 


ness grew upon each to have all its furnishings 
ready, and long before the time when they could 
hope to enter it, every detail had been attended 
to as far as possible. 

Several trips had been made during the prog- 
ress of its construction, and with each the en- 
thusiasm grew stronger, for Laurie had done 
his best and the success of his work was assured 
before it was finished. Even Brydon had yielded 
to the wisdom of Portia’s plan, and as he had 
sold a part of her property at a fancy price, he 
was compelled to admit that her decision had 
been wiser than his own. His interest in the 
new home was little less than hers after it had 
fully been decided upon, and after all the de- 
tails of business had been settled, and when he 
came up one night and said he was compelled 
to leave in a day or two for London, his an- 
noyance at having to go was only partially 
concealed. 

“Mother cables me she is ill and asks me to 
come at once,” he told Portia privately, “and 
of course I must go. If I thought mother was 
really ill, I should be miserable, naturally, and 
wouldn’t hesitate for a moment, but I don’t 
believe she is. We had a devil of a row before 
she left. She wanted me to spend the winter in 
France with her and I declined. I think she 
understood why and it made her unbecomingly 
angry. Mother can’t understand that I am no 
longer a child and that I prefer to manage my 
own time and affairs. 


5 ° 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“I have been expecting something like this,” 
he continued after a moment. “It’s a way she 
has. I don’t believe she is ill, and yet I dare not 
take the risk. She may be, and I’d never for- 
give myself if anything should happen.” 

“Of course you will have to go,” Portia an- 
swered regretfully. “Have you any idea when 
you will be back?” 

“By return boat if possible. However, that 
will not be possible ; but not a day longer than 
necessary will I stay. I know perfectly well 
why she wants to keep me away from New 
York, and I guess I shall have to make her un- 
derstand again that I am my father’s son as 
well as hers,” and he looked at Portia signifi- 
cantly. 

“Laurie says the house will be almost fin- 
ished about the last of March,” she said pres- 
ently, “and he wants us to go out with him on 
the 28th or 30th to inspect it thoroughly. We 
will have a tally-ho drive, and dinner at the 
Inn, and it will be such a disappointment if you 
are not with us.” 

“I shall be with you if it is possible to get 
here,” he said quietly. “And unless mother is 
really ill, I think it is going to be possible.” 


CHAPTER VII 


March had behaved beautifully, even for 
New York, and the first faint suggestions of 
the coming of spring were elusively evident in 
the warmth of the wind and the breath of a 
faint and delicate fragrance in the air. 

The relaxing of all nature as it stretched and 
shook itself and loosened its hardened hold 
upon old mother-earth was felt rather than 
seen, and that her mysteries were about to be 
revealed and her secrets disclosed was joyously 
evident to the penetrant soul who recognized 
her subtleties and loved her processes. The 
wonder of a new birth was in the air, and life 
was stirring in obedience to the law of its 
maker, and already one could feel the begin- 
ning of its manifestations, although as yet its 
visible form had not assumed its recurring 
shape or color. 

Joyce sat alone on the back seat of the tally- 
ho. Portia and Irving, Herr Runkel and Vir- 
ginia were in front of her, while Elizabeth, sit- 
ting with Laurie, held the reins of the four 
horses as the latter leaned over and gave some 
final directions to the map below, 


52 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“Are we ready?” he asked, turning with 
whip in hand to see if all were comfortably 
seated. “Hello, Joyce, there goes your hat! 
Hold on and I’ll get it.” 

The others turned quickly, but already Joyce 
was scrambling over the side of the coach, and 
before Laurie could get down she was on the 
ground and dusting the innocent cause of her 
descent with unnecessary energy. 

“The express is coming,” she called to him. 
“Drive off a little and I will come over in a 
minute. I’ve torn my dress and must pin it 
up.” 

Laurie looked down the road. 

“That is the express, and it sounds like it’s 
slowing up.” He drew up the reins quickly 
and drove across the road to a bend which hid 
the oncoming train from the horses’ sight. 

“I wonder why Joyce doesn’t come,” said 
Virginia, craning her neck in the direction of 
the station. “It can’t take her all this time to 
pin her skirt. I believe that train is going to 
stop.” 

“It’s slowing up,” said Irving. “No — there 
she goes ! Great Grandmother, but she’s a 
hummer!” and he stood up and waved to the 
flying monster as it flashed like lightning down 
the track. 

The train had slackened its marvelous speed, 
and as it neared the station where Joyce, lean- 
ing carelessly against a post, stood waiting, a 
man swung himself off the platform of the first 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


53 


coach and came toward her. She held out her 
hand, and then looked at her watch. 

“Only twenty minutes late, after all,” she 
said, trying to speak naturally. “I thought it a 
pity for you to miss us, so I’ve torn my dress 
and ruined my hat to give you a greeting. The 
others are waiting around the bend. No, here 
they are now,” and she waved her handkerchief 
slightly as Laurie drove in sight. 

Brydon took off his hat and waved it vig- 
orously, while Virginia jumped to her feet with 
a cry of delight, and seeing his outstretched 
arms sprang into them and kissed him warmly 
as he put her down. 

Irving and Herr Runkel reached forward to 
help him up, but already he was at Portia’s side, 
and stooping over he kissed her, then shook 
hands with Elizabeth, and turned to first one 
and then the other of the men. 

“Brydon ought to go on the stage.” said 
Laurie, still shaking his hand energetically. 
“He’s nothing if not theatrical. He’s kept us 
watching for his ship for twenty-four hours, 
and, when finally we give him up, he springs 
upon the scene in the most unexpected manner.” 

“Nothing like having friends on the direc- 
torate,” commented Irving, helping Virginia 
back to her seat, while Joyce took the one she 
had before. “My grandmother’s ghost might 
have demanded my presence without avail if I 
had been on that express. How did you man- 
age to get them to slow down, Brydon?” 


54 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“Phoned the president for an order,” laugh- 
ed the latter. “Told him it was a matter of life 
to get here.” He took out his watch and set it 
by the clock at the station. “Only got away 
from the dock forty minutes ago,” he con- 
tinued. “Mother came over with me. I sent 
her up to the house with her maid and rushed 
for the train ahead of the express, but missed 
it.” 

He flashed a queer little grimace at Portia, 
which no one else noticed, and then he sat 
down by Joyce, and pushing his hat back wiped 
his forehead and looked at her as he had not 
let himself do before. She looked away and 
called to Laurie to start. The horses, impatient 
over their long delay, needed but his touch to 
be off, and in a moment the station was out of 
sight and the drive to the new home up on the 
hill begun. 

“You expected me?” queried Brydon, turn- 
ing to Joyce. “Did you make them wait long ?” 

“I made them wait for the express,” and she 
smiled as she answered the question. “I knew 
it was the last chance and I risked my hat on 
it.” She straightened the latter and gave it a 
little shake before pinning it more firmly to her 
soft, loose hair; then she looked at him pro- 
vokingly. 

“You risked your hat? What did your hat 
have to do with the express, or me ? Td like to 
preserve it for the rest of my life if it has served 
me so well, but Pm stupid enough not to under- 
stand.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


SS 

“No, I guess not — you’re a man. I couldn’t 
keep them waiting indefinitely, however, and 
when at last I heard the express coming I 
dropped my hat and got down for it; tore my 
dress, broke my finger, I believe, and altogether 
risked my life, and all for politeness. I’m old- 
fashioned enough to imagine it’s nice to have 
some one to meet you and I thought perhaps 
you might like it.” 

“Like it !” and Brydon’s voice quivered in 
spite of his effort to control it. “I have dream- 
ed of it each hour and minute since I left you. 
Do you think — ” 

“Listen !” she cried suddenly, and put out her 
hand to stop him. “Listen — it’s the Bob White 
calling. Do you hear it, Virginia? It’s the 
Bob White calling for its mate.” 

The horses slackened their pace, and all grew 
silent as they heard the call of the partridge 
and the wood thrush in the distance and the 
chirp and twitter of the young birds nearer by, 
and as they listened they almost held their 
breath. 

Very gradually they were reaching the top 
of the wide plateau, and already they could see 
the sweep of the river through the trees and feel 
its salt breath on their faces, while here and 
there at long distances apart stately houses rose 
in the center of yet more stately grounds, and 
art and nature seemed for once to dwell in har- 
mony together. 

The spell of the scene was upon all, and in 
silence they drove a little farther, and then Vir- 


56 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


ginia stood up and opened her arms impul- 
sively. 

“There it is!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Laurie, 
you have made, the old home over again — if 
only father were here !” Her voice broke, and 
turning she held her hands out to him, and he, 
giving the reins to Elizabeth, shook them 
heartily. 

“If you are pleased, I am more than happy,” 
he said lightly, though his face flushed with 
pleasure. “When the grounds are in good con- 
dition and the flowers in bloom there will be no 
prettier place in the neighborhood,” he con- 
tinued, turning to Portia; “and if you will en- 
joy living in it as much as I have enjoyed help- 
ing to get it together, you will be a happy — ” 

“Lot of old maids,” interrupted Joyce. “Is 
this where we get down ?” 

It was the first visit to the new home for 
weeks, and the progress had been so great since 
they had last seen it that the surprise and de- 
light of its future occupants was too great for 
words, and in a sort of ecstatic silence every 
spot had to be explored and every detail ex- 
plained. 

When finally Portia and Irving were deep in 
the mysteries of innumerable wires which later 
were to bring forth light and heat and sound, 
and Laurie was showing his last surprise to 
Elizabeth in a reproduction of one of her own 
mantel designs, and Herr Runkel and Virginia 
in the music-room were trying to decide just 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


57 


where the piano should be placed, Brydon could 
stand it no longer, and Joyce was implored to 
come out and view the river from a certain spot 
known only to himself. 

Slowly they walked across the brown, moist 
earth to a clump of splendid trees whose gaunt 
arms stretched weirdly out against the soft haze 
of the dying sun, and down the hill until they 
reached a little hollow where a stream, not long 
since wakened from its frozen sleep, was gurg- 
ling and splashing over its pebbly bed, and here 
it was that Brydon stopped. 

“And my answer, Joyce? You were to give 
it when I came back, and I cannot wait another 
moment for it.” 

He took her hands in his and compelled her 
to look into his face. 

“What is it, Joyce?” 

She tried to draw her hands away. 

“I do not know,” she answered slowly. “You 
have come back, and I have no answer for you. 
Why did you ever ask me? You know it is 
impossible, impossible — and the old days were 
so happy !” 

“But the new days will be happier!” he in- 
terrupted joyously. “You splendid, cruel 
thing !” and he took her in his arms and stopped 
the words upon her lips. “You will not tell me, 
but I have found it out, and nothing is impos- 
sible — nothing !” 

She struggled to free herself from his arms. 

“But I have not said I loved you. I do not 


SS 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


love you. I mean I will not love you — that is — 
I will not marry you.” 

The foolishness of her words stopped her, 
and with a sob that was half a laugh she tried 
again to draw herself away. 

Brydon’ s face grew suddenly grave and 
white. 

“We must not begin with any nonsense, 
Joyce,” he said soberly. “If you love me enough 
to marry me, nothing else is to be considered. 
Is there love enough for that, Joyce?” 

She put out her hands protestingly. 

“Love is enough for to-day,” and the little 
catch in her voice was dangerously sweet. 
“Marriage belongs to to-morrow — and to-mor- 
row may never come. Is it not enough that I 
love you, Brydon ?” and the shyness in her eyes 
was as wine in his blood — and the woods seem- 
ed full of the singing of birds ! 

i 

It was Laurie’s call, clear and loud, that 
brought them at last to the group waiting at the 
house, and had they not been so impatient they 
would have been more penetrating; but as it 
was, only Portia was conscious that their ab- 
sence was significant and its length unusual. 

“You two people will leave nothing to be 
learned later,” said Laurie, helping Joyce up 
the unfinished steps. “You oughtn’t to show 
Joyce every spot on the place at one jump, 
Brydon. Perhaps she’d rather find them out 
by degrees. By the way, we’ve had a big sur- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


59 


prise this afternoon,” and as Virginia came in 
sight he looked at Brydon curiously. 

The stranger with her saw Brydon first, and 
then the others heard a cry from each, and to 
their amazement the two men were for a mo- 
ment in each other’s arms and hugging one 
another in sheer excess of joy and surprise. 

At a greeting so unusual among men the 
others walked away, and at the sound Brydon 
turned to Portia. 

“Jonathan has come home,” he said simply, 
and the ring in his voice was good to hear. 
“You have met her, John, I see. You have met 
them all but Miss Symington. May I present 
Mr. Livingston, Joyce?” 

“I had begun to doubt your being genuine 
flesh and blood, Mr. Livingston, and had rather 
placed you among my myths, but I am very 
glad to welcome you back to America,” and she 
shook hands with him in her cordial Southern 
way, that sent a glow to his heart at once. 

“It’s almost worth staying away for years to 
get such a splendid surprise and greeting as I 
have had to-day,” he answered, placing his 
hand affectionately on Brydon’s shoulder as he 
spoke, “and I am very grateful for it. I de- 
cided very hurriedly to come over, and just got 
here yesterday. I went to your office at once, 
Bry, and heard you were expected to-day. I 
understood from your last letter that you 
would be back by the twentieth, and a silver six- 
pence was never flatter than I when I learned 


6o 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


you were still out of town. I was coming down 
to-night, however, to hunt you up ; but I’m aw- 
fully glad to see you now, old fellow,” and 
again they were shaking hands. 

The others laughed and began to move to- 
ward the tally-ho. 

“But how did you drop in here ?” asked Bry- 
don. “Of all places on earth it was the last in 
which to expect you.” 

“But I’m always found in unexpected places 
— though it really does look odd my being here, 
doesn’t it? I bought Hampstead, you know, 
from Bryce a short time ago, and as I had never 
seen it I thought I’d run out and take a look. 
And this afternoon, as I was passing, my curi- 
osity brought me in here, not thinking, of 
course, that any one was about. I saw Laurie 
at once, and he presented me to the others and 
began to hunt for you.” 

“You’ve bought Hampstead?” said Brydon 
incredulously. “You’ve bought Hampstead 
and had never seen it until yesterday? Are 
you never going to stop that sort of thing, 
John? Was Bryce in trouble again?” 

Livingston nodded and laughed carelessly. 

“Matters were a little tight with Bryce, and 
besides I needed a corner to come back to. The 
house in New York has been sold, and a fellow 
wants some sort of a place for his things, you 
know. By the way, is Miss Deming the cousin 
about whom you have writen to me so often?” 

“I have written to you about both of them,” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


6 1 


Brydon answered ambiguously. “They are my 
first cousins, and cousins of Irving’s also, 
though on the other side.” 

“And is Miss Symington a cousin also ?” 

The look on Brydon’s face made an answer 
unnecessary, and Livingston shook his hand 
until it hurt. 

“Pardon, old man,” he said quickly. “I’m 
coming in to-night and I hope you’ve got some- 
thing to tell me,” and before Brydon could stop 
him he had swung himself up on his horse and 
was waving good-by as he rode rapidly down 
the drive which led to the road below. 

At dinner that night Mr. Livingston’s sud- 
den appearance among them overshadowed the 
comments and criticisms of the house, and over 
their coffee Brydon told them the story of his 
life. 

They had long known of him as Brydon’s 
best-loved friend, but now that he was back, 
and by a strange coincidence would have a 
home near theirs, the latter knew it was time 
that he should tell them something more. 

“We have been friends almost since baby- 
hood,” he began, “and though John is older 
than I and graduated ahead of me, he came 
back for law and finished the same year I got 
my degree. Later, when I was working for 
law, he went in for medicine, just to see what 
was in it, he said ; and not until long afterwards 
did I understand and appreciate why he did it. 

“I wasn't looking at life very seriously just 


62 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


at that time, and had it not been for John I 
might have gone to the Devil. He didn’t like 
the path, however, and he managed to keep me 
out of it somehow. Had he taken it I should 
have followed him blindly, and so would several 
others, for he had more power than any man in 
school; but fortunately his taste didn’t lie that 
way. 

“When the grind was over for both of us we 
started off on a trip, and had been gone about a 
year when he was called home by the death of 
his father. I came over with him, of course, 
and it was well I did, for two months later his 
mother died, and in all my life I’ve never seen 
a fellow so cut to pieces as John was by his 
mother’s death. His love for her, and hers for 
him, wasn’t an every-day sort, or rather it was 
different from the every-day sort I ran against, 
and her death pretty nearly knocked him off his 
feet. He knew there was much to be done, 
however, and went to work on his father’s es- 
tate, and discovered to his misfortune that he 
was a far richer man than he had dreamed. His 
father had been a quiet, studious, and yet 
strictly business old gentleman, and John had 
no idea of what he was really worth until he 
died. 

“It would have been better for some reasons 
had he been left without a penny, for he needed 
to dig deep and hard to keep from thinking; 
but as it was he found himself at twenty-four 
with several millions to his credit and no one 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


63 


to share it with — no sisters or brothers, and no 
home to keep up, for nothing could induce him 
to enter his house after his mother’s body had 
been taken out. There had been other children, 
but all had died in babyhood, and John was left 
practically alone after the death of his parents. 
An aunt of his attended to his things, I believe, 
and had what she thought best stored away. 
The house was rented and Jack went into 
apartments. 

“A few months later, mother was ordered 
abroad by her doctor, and I was compelled to 
take her over and see her comfortably fixed for 
the winter. The night I got back John came 
around and told me he was to be married the 
next week. Up to that time we had never had 
more than a boyish quarrel, but that night we 
nearly came to blows. I knew so well his reck- 
less, generous nature that I was perfectly cer- 
tain he would do some fool thing with his 
money if it ever presented itself, and while I 
was away it had been presented and he had 
taken it in without a thought or a care for the 
consequences.” 

Brydon leaned back and ran his hand across 
his forehead as if the memory of that night was 
still a painful one, and then he continued : 

“The woman he was to marry was one of the 
best known and most beautiful in New York, 
but as soulless as a paper doll. She had lost 
her father about the same time John had lost 
his, and as the former’s estate was terribly in- 


6 4 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


volved, she would have had to change her mode 
of life unless she married, and as John was the 
highest card in her hand at that particular time 
she played him for all he was worth — and won 
the game, of course. 

“She was oldelr than John — several years 
older, and she as deliberately worked upon his 
sympathies and appealed to his generosity as 
priest ever worked for proselyte; and John, 
utterly indifferent to his own happiness, had 
swallowed her bait and offered her his name 
and his money, and she had accepted both so 
readily that when I returned the day for the 
wedding had been appointed, and nothing I 
could say would induce him to postpone it. 

“He didn’t pretend to love her. As far as 
I know he has never loved any woman ; but he 
felt sorry for her, and if his money could make 
her happier — why it might as well do it, he 
said. 

“I made some nasty remarks to John that 
night, and he came near knocking me down for 
them. I deserved it, but I was simply crazy 
to think of his selling himself in that way, and 
I told him some cold truths about the woman he 
was to marry. It was then that we almost came 
to blows. 

“I apologized, however, and after a while we 
cooled down and talked it over more quietly. 
His utter indifference in the whole matter hurt 
me more than if he had been in love with her, 
for until he found her out he might have been 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


65 


happy; but, except that he was necessary to 
make the marriage go off, he was perfectly in- 
different to it. 

“Of course he did not say he did not love her, 
but neither did he say he did, and I knew in 
the beginning how it was going to end.” 

Brydon took out a cigar and looked at it, then 
smiled slightly. 

“It was the funniest marriage I ever saw, 
and the saddest, as paradoxical as it may 
sound,” he continued after a minute. “There 
was no discount on Miss Grey’s beauty — she 
looked superb ; but there were flashes of indig- 
nation sent off continually during the service by 
John’s part of the gathering, and his aunt was 
literally in tears. 

“I swore at first I wouldn’t go, and then my 
heart failed me. I loved him better than any- 
thing on earth — and I went, of course. 

“They went abroad immediately after the 
wedding, and the mother-in-law went with 
them. John wrote to me frequently, but he 
rarely mentioned his wife, and when one day 
he cabled me he had left for Africa to do some 
shooting, I knew he had come to the end of the 
rope so far as patience and endurance was con- 
cerned, and that he had quit. 

“A few months later I joined him, and one 
night, sitting out in front of our tents in the 
heart of the forest, with the stars above us and 
our guns by our side, he told me that he had 


66 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


the first time he had ever mentioned the sub- 
ject to me, and only occasionally has he done 
so since. 

“Two years and a half later a divorce was 
gotten, and he wrote me of it, merely stating 
the fact and not going into details; but to my 
certain knowledge he has never seen his wife 
since he left her in Paris, and he never will 
again if it is possible to avoid it. When he left 
her he had no intention of getting a divorce. He 
expected to pay to the full for his bitter mistake, 
and never once has he blamed her for his folly. 
He is not a man to excuse himself or to attempt 
any palliation for his conduct. He had been 
foolishly careless and indifferent to so serious 
a question as marriage, and that the world 
would never hear a comment from him I knew 
as well as I knew the man.” 

Brydon paused a moment and rubbed his 
forehead slowly with his fingers, then smiled 
slightly as he began again. 

“The ground for divorce was incompatibility 
I believe. I suppose that was as good a name 
to call it as any other, but it might have been 
called anything. I do not want to be unjust, 
however,” he added grimly. “As cordially as 
I hate Margaret Grey, I do not want to create 
a wrong impression. She did not trifle with 
her husband’s name or honor, but she did 
everything- else that was unendurable and un- 
bearable in a woman, and the wonder was that 
John did not quit long before he did. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


67 


“The divorce, of course, was gotten over here 
— in one of the Western States, I believe, and 
all future dealings with his wife were ended 
by John’s depositing to her credit a sum suffic- 
ient to satisfy even her abnormal appetite in 
that direction.” 

Brydon put the cigar he had been holding be- 
tween his fingers back into his pocket, and got 
up and stood with his hands resting a moment 
on the back of his chair, and when he spoke 
again his voice was hard and bitter. 

“There is a saying in Paris that ‘whatever an 
American woman undertakes to do she gener- 
ally succeeds in, and that when she attempts to 
ruin a man’s life she usually makes a success of 
it.’ This time, thank God, the saying didn’t 
come true, for while the shame and misery of 
all this has made John a stranger in his own 
land for many years, it hasn’t ruined him and 
it never will.” 

He broke off abruptly and then looked at his 
watch. “It is time for our train,” he said hur- 
riedly, and as if glad to change the subject. “I 
have kept you too long already, but as you will 
hear various versions of all this, now John has 
come home, I wanted you to know the true one. 
To judge him by the standards of other men 
is to misjudge him. He is too independent of 
public opinion, too impulsive and fearless not 
to be often misunderstood; but he has learned 
one lesson well, and it is one he will never for- 
get. He understands now to the full that no 


68 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


marriage is lawful without love; and that he 
has paid a bitterer price for his knowledge than 
most men pay is due to his nature, which scorns 
above all men I have ever known, those things 
which are not clean and white and honest and 
high. Come, it is time for the train.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


Virginia’s cup of happiness was not only full, 
but so full that it constantly threatened to run 
over. Spinstervilla was not something that 
was to be — it was, and like a bird that from 
sheer excess of joy flits restlessly from limb to 
limb, so she wandered up and down the wide, 
cool halls and out upon the broad verandas, and 
into the bed-rooms and library and dining- 
room and back again into the hall, until Eliza- 
beth suggested that she take a dose of some- 
thing. 

“For what?” she asked. “For happiness? 
Do you give people things to take for happi- 
ness?” and she laughed joyously. 

She stood for a moment longer in the door- 
way, where Elizabeth had stopped her, and 
looked beyond the broad fields to the silver 
thread of the river as it flashed and sparkled 
in the sunlight, then went softly down the steps 
to a large tree on the lawn that she might better 
see one of her pretty feathered friends who was 
calling and chattering to its mate. As she 
watched the latter fly to his little wife and then 
fly off again in a most mannerless way, she 
nodded her head very wisely and began to talk 


7 ° 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


to the neglected little creature as if it were en- 
tirely human and quite equal to understanding 
all she was about to say. 

Virginia’s passionate love for all the beauti- 
ful things of life, for all the things that God 
had made, had given her an intuitive comrade- 
ship with them, and it was as spirit unto spirit 
that she breathed in their atmosphere and 
breathed out a recognition of their mysteries 
and an understanding of their might, and to her 
nothing was commonplace, but everything won- 
derful. 

How the birds sing and flowers bloom and 
grass grows; how the sun shines and waves 
break and rain falls ; how the clouds make glory 
for the sky, and how the earth brings forth her 
increase, were all matters of marvel to her, and 
she worshiped the Creator of it all and won- 
dered at the work of His hands, and her creed 
was love for both. 

That at last she was to live again where she 
could daily watch the unfolding of bud and 
blossom and blade; could drink deep draughts 
of beauty, and could hear the murmur of the 
brook and the melody of birds, and could listen 
to the inner voices, meant to stir depths that 
were almost unknown to herself; and as she 
stood under the tree on this perfect day in early 
May a flood of warmth and welcome for the 
new life surged joyously over her, and her face 
reflected gloriously the gladness in her heart. 

It was a rare face, high-bred and pure, with 
faith in the eyes, and a laughing mouth. Ex- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


7 * 


quisite womanliness radiated from it, and few 
who saw it failed ever to forget it. 

The way she looked at life, the way she loved 
it and lived it was reflected in looks and voice 
and manner, and the splendid health of her body 
was evidenced by its poise and grace, and fresh 
vigor and reserve of power. 

That life was a real, an earnest, and happy 
thing she would have admitted gladly and with 
scant patience with those who did nothing for 
it and got nothing from it, and through her 
many experiences in the heart of a great city 
she had come with her confidence in human na- 
ture still unshaken, and with strong faith in the 
good that is somewhere to be found in all. 

She had seen many phases of life; had seen 
much of sin and suffering and sorrow, but she 
had refused to believe that all sorrow and suf- 
fering is caused by sin, and had known that 
sin is not seldom caused by suffering and sor- 
row; and a great pity and tenderness and pa- 
tient tolerance had gradually grown in her 
heart for much that she had seen that on its sur- 
face had seemed hopeless and impossible at 
first. 

Hers was no sentimental sympathy, and she 
recognized the law of penalty and the neces- 
sity of its enactments ; but with a cheerful cour- 
age that never failed she persisted in her faith 
that with half a chance there would be more 
good than evil in the world, and her trust was 
in God — and man and woman — to make it so. 


72 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


She had loved her work in the city; would 
always love it, and would ever keep in touch 
with it, but to leave its dust and dirt, its noise 
and confusion, and its restless, struggling life 
was to breathe free again, and as she leaned 
against the tree she suddenly put her arms 
around it and pressed her face against its cool, 
rough bark. 

Most of all things in nature, she loved trees 
— they were so human, so like people. Some 
were strong and restful and full of power; 
others so frail that they bent to every breeze 
and shivered when the wind was high, and 
shrank and shriveled when the sun was hot. 
And others yet again were stern and silent and 
solemn and straight, and in their branches the 
birds would never nest in courting time. They, 
too, were like some people, but she did not like 
people of that sort. She smiled whimsically 
at the thought, and unclasping her arms from 
the tree, walked away to one whose great limbs 
promised protection later on from heat and 
sun ; then she stopped again and looked 
critically around her. In a few weeks the place 
would be a blaze of beauty and color and per- 
fume, and the success of it all would be largely 
due to the boys. Her critical look changed to 
one of interest as she scanned every detail of 
the house, then she smiled to herself. 

“None of my lovers are in it,” she thought, 
leaning back against the tree and idly clasping 
her hands behind her head. “Brydon adores 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


73 


Portia, but Joyce is his mainspring of action. 
Laurie venerates her, but he loves Elizabeth 
and is afraid to tell her so. Irving worships 
her but is wedded to electricity, and if we 
would let him would put little bells on us all; 
and even Mr. Livingston, for Brydon’s sake, 
has had something to do with it too.” 

Her eyes came back from the house and made 
a wide sweep of the grounds. They had been 
put in thorough order for future development 
without their knowledge or consent, but with 
Brydon’s, by the gardener at Hampstead, Mr. 
Livingston’s new home. 

The spring had been an unusually mild one 
and vegetation for the season was remarkably 
advanced. Already the grass was beginning 
to send up tiny green blades, and long, slender 
shoots of the vines around the fencing, which 
was to form a hedge, were reaching out and 
twisting themselves sturdily about the wires ; 
and the breath of new life was in all the air. 

It was very kind of Mr. Livingston. He 
had asked permission of Brydon to have this 
work done, and yet Portia had not liked it. 
Brydon had said it was nonsense. Jonathan 
was like his brother, and he simply suggested 
that his men put the grounds in shape before 
the house was occupied, and he had agreed, 
thinking Portia would be pleased. 

The gardens at Hampstead were the most 
famous in the neighborhood, and to have the 
head gardener, an old Scotchman who knew his 


74 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


business thoroughly, start things at Spinster- 
villa was a piece of rare luck, and Portia ought 
to see it in that light — but Portia didn’t. 

Pleasants was to take charge of the grounds 
hereafter, with the occasional assistance of a 
man from the village; but that he could not 
have gotten them in their present condition 
Virginia understood very well, and. like Bry- 
don, she wondered why Portia had seemed to 
regret that the gardener from Hampstead had 
done the preliminary work, but regret it she 
certainly did. 

Pleasants was a Virginia importation, who, 
with Martha, his wife, was to represent the 
retinue of servants at Spinstervilla, and since 
their arrival they had been a source of unfailing 
delight to their future mistresses. They both 
belonged to that class of family servants which 
in the old life had made the problem of domes- 
tic service a much less serious one than it now 
is, and on her visit to Virginia, Portia had ar- 
ranged for them to live with her when the new 
home was finished, and no two babes in the 
woods ever started off more innocently than 
these two buxom, middle-aged darkies on this 
their first trip to a city of any size. 

For the past two days Pleasants’s face had 
been one vast expansive grin, owing to the re- 
ceipt of a box of cast-off clothing which Bry- 
don had sent out to him. Martha’s pride in 
the same was as great as his own, and the 
night before Virginia and Joyce had hugely en- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 75 

joyed a conversation unintentionally overheard 
between them. 

The clothing was evidently being taken out 
piece by piece, and Pleasants’s exclamations 
were original if not elegant. 

“Hi, w’at’s this?” they heard him say. “’Fo’ 
Gord, if it ain’t a swallertail! Now won’t I 
be a reg’lar buck in that?” and he held it off 
at arm’s length so that Martha’s admiring gaze 
could rest more readily upon it. “A swaller- 
tail, all for myse’f, an’ the pants an’ westcutt to 
match! Now wouldn’t Miss Portia’s father 
like to know I was flyin’ round her with coat- 
tails on like these? Now wouldn’t he?” and 
Pleasants, with a grunt, made another dive into 
the box and brought up a coat of another shape, 
and another low-cut vest, which seemed to puz- 
zle him. 

“These heah two things fit,” he said pres- 
ently, trying them on — “this heah coat an’ 
westcutt, but they show all my shirt bosom 
same as the swaller-tail suit do. I reckon now 
this heah’s meant for somethin’ extry, but I 
don’t get on to w’at it jes’ do mean,” and 
Pleasants looked at Martha questioningly. 

“I knows w’at they is,” she said after a min- 
ute, critically examining the lining, pockets, and 
length of the sleeves. “It’s w’at Jim Roberts 
say they call some kind of a tuck-indo coat, 
w’at you put on when there ain’t no special 
company, but when you jes’ want to show you 
got a clean shirt an’ ain’t coverin’ up a dirty 


7 6 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


one with a long cravat. Jim say the summer 
waiters wears ’em all the time at the Springs. 
I reckon Miss Portia will want you to wear 
these every night an’ keep the swaller-tails for 
specials. Lord knows I certainly is glad it’s 
you w’at’s got to do the waitin’ on an’ me the 
cookin’. I know I kin cook if I ain’t bothered, 
an’ got things to cook wid, but ’twould make 
me turn round like a top to put me in the dinin’ - 
room wid the white folks all the time !” 

Pleasants grunted again. It was evident he 
liked the prospect. 

Two more suits were fished out of the box, 
and shirts, collars, cuffs, cravats, etc., were 
spread around the room. When finally he 
had exhausted his vocabulary of adjectives he 
took out his pipe, lighted it, and leaned back in 
his chair for a smoke to quiet his nerves. 

“W’at’s the name of thi$ heah gent’man 
w’at’s give me these things?” he asked after a 
silent puff or two — waving his hand in the di- 
rection of his newly-acquired garments. “W’at 
did they say his name was, Marthy?” and he 
held his pipe in his hand as he asked the ques- 
tion. 

“His name is Mr. Brydon Field,” she an- 
swered slowly, folding up some of the things 
and putting them back in the box. “He’s Miss 
Portia’s an’ Miss Virginia’s cousin, they say, 
an’ jes’ like their own brother — but they can’t 
fool me like that. I bet he’s lovin’ some of 
these young ladies. ’Tain’t natural that a man 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


77 


could mix with ’em an’ not fall in love with 
some of ’em. ’Tain’t natural, that it ain’t,” 
and Martha’s voice was decidedly derisive at 
the mere idea. 

“He’s a Yankee gent’man an’ maybe they 
don’t fall in love so quick as our young gent’- 
men,” suggested Pleasants. “He seemed to be 
very natchral and easy with ’em all the night 
we saw ’em in the city, an’ I didn’t see no par- 
tic’lar int’rest in nary one of ’em.” 

“You didn’t!” returned Martha scornfully, 
her head still bent over the box. “You didn’t! 
Well, you’re a man an’ ’twasn’t to be espected 
that you would ; but you jes’ wait awhile, an’ I 
bet even you’ll see that he ain’t jes’ a cousin to 
’em all. Men ain’t made that way. He cer- 
t’n’y is a nice man — but he’s a man,” and 
again Martha gave a grunt more expressive 
than further comments, and dived for another 
batch of collars and cuffs to put carefully 
away. 

“This heah cert’n’y is a beautiful place w’at 
they got heah,” Pleasants commented after a 
pause. “I thought Miss Portia was po’. They 
tell me down in the county that there warn’t no 
money left after the old gent’man died, an’ 
that Miss Portia an’ Miss Virginia been a 
earnin’ their own money ever since they went 
away; but dis heah am a rich person’s home, 
an’ Gord knows I’m glad of it. To think of 
old Marse Deming’s daughters bein’ po’ is too 
scan’lous to believe, that ’tis — an’ them what’s 


7 8 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


been born into what they was can't no way 
’commodate themselves to po’ folks’ ways. 
’Tain’t to be espected of ’em either,” and Pleas- 
ants, puffing vigorously at his pipe, filled the 
room with its smoke as he leaned back in restful 
relaxation in his chair. 

“You’re right it ain’t,” agreed Martha, wip- 
ing the perspiration from her face. “You 
couldn’t make po’ folks of a Deming, no mat- 
ter what you’d do to ’em. They is born quality, 
an’ it’s like the color of their eyes and the shape 
of their feet — it’s in ’em. I don’t know nothin’ 
about these other young ladies, ’cept I know 
they is ladies by their ways and their looks, an’ 
because Miss Portia wouldn’t have ’em if they 
warn’t — but I do know about Miss Portia 
an’ Miss Virginia. My mother an’ my grand- 
mother, an’ her mother before her, I reckon, all 
belonged to the Deming family, and everybody 
what is anybody knows what the Demings been 
used to all their lives till the trouble come after 
Miss Portia’s father died. 

“They tell me in the county too that they is 
po’,” she continued presently ; “but Miss Portia 
tole me ’bout the lady leavin’ her some money 
an’ some land, an’ that’s how come it they built 
this house. Gord knows I’d like to thank that 
lady,” and Martha began to make her prepara- 
tions for closing up for the night. 

She went out in the kitchen for a moment, 
then came back and shut the door. 

“I done put out the lights,” she said grumb- 
lingly, “an’ it’s a mighty easy way they have 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


79 


up heah to put ’em out — jes’ turn a screw, an’ 
pooh! they’re gone; but I believe there’s some 
trick about it, that I do. ’Tain’t right an’ law- 
ful to have things done so easy, an’ I reckon 
we’ll all be blowed up some night. All them 
w’at likes ’em can have these ’lectric things to 
come and go like witches, but I wisht I had my 
old kerosene lamp this minute, that I do,” and 
Martha bolted her door with unusual energy, 
as if locks and bars were proof against modern 
conveniences which somehow or other were 
stubbornly connected in her mind with contri- 
vances of the Devil, and which sooner or later 
would assert themselves in a way destructive to 
the peace and repose of the household. 

Virginia smiled to herself as she thought 
over the conversation of the night before, and 
she wondered how long it would be before 
Martha’s sharp eyes would discover that Bry- 
don’s cousinship did not include every member 
of their little family, and while still wondering 
she heard Joyce calling her from the front 
steps on which she was standing, and with an 
answering call she walked toward her and went 
into the house. 


CHAPTER IX 


There was nothing else to be done, and 
Portia and Elizabeth, content to be quiet for a 
few moments before the arrival of their guests, 
came out on the front veranda and lay back in 
the comfortable depths of their low, easy chairs, 
in unspeakable thankfulness that the final touch 
had been given and the time for rest and relax- 
ation had come at last. For a week past un- 
ceasing labor and care had been spent in the 
making of a home out of their house, and as 
Portia had forbidden any visits during the pro- 
cess of furnishing, the arrival to-night of Bry- 
don and Laurie, of Irving and Mr. Livingston, 
to break bread with them for the first time in 
their new quarters, was causing a delightful 
little thrill of pride and pleasure in the heart 
of each. 

Herr Runkel could not be with them. He 
had been suddenly called to Germany, and 
though he had wept at leaving before the house 
was finished and his “deer, deer friens” safely 
established in it, Brydon was immensely 
rejoiced at his absence and had begged 
that Mr. Livingston should be allowed 
to come in his place. Quite frequently since 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


8l 


the latter’s return to New York had he dropped 
in with Brydon for a cup of tea in Portia’s 
sitting-room in the city, and as a future neigh- 
bor he had been quietly unobtrusive in many 
acts of thoughtfulness at Spinstervilla ; never- 
theless, try to stifle it as she would, Portia con-, 
tinually found herself filled with a wilfully un 
reasoning desire that he would go away again 
— go away before they should learn to miss him 
or to feel the influence of his presence. With 
that intuition so unerringly developed in some 
women, she realized at once that he was too 
strongly possessed of power — that supreme 
requisite in a man — to be an ordinary friend 
who would come and go indifferently at will, 
and already she had seen that he cared too little 
for people in general not to be capable of caring 
very much for some in particular. Whether 
the members of her little household would come 
under the one head or the other had been a 
question that would persistently arise in her 
mind and mock her with an answer for which 
there was no foundation save the instinct of her 
woman’s heart. 

That the doors of exclusive society and ex- 
cessive wealth had been opened wide to wel- 
come him back to his old home, and that he had 
been smothered in invitations to all sorts and 
sizes of functions from old friends and new, 
she well understood; but in her old-fashioned 
balance the weight of her desire that he had 
never come amongst them made all else want- 


82 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


in g, and a little cloud no bigger than a woman’s 
fear shaped itself on the horizon of her heart 
and would not melt away. 

However, for Brydon’s sake she would be 
friendly, and she had done as he had asked. 
And now as she sat upon the veranda awaiting 
their arrival, she tried to put from her all possi- 
bilities that were not pleasant, and to hope that 
the happy beginning of the new life would be 
but a promise of the days that were to come. 

Joyce and Virginia had left her to make a 
final survey of the house, and as they stood in 
front of the dining-room door looking within, 
the joy of their new possessions was flushing 
their faces with a light that is made by content 
when it passes into satisfaction. 

“This room is the pride of Elizabeth’s heart,” 
said Virginia, glancing around it lovingly and 
noticing critically its every detail. “If the 
body is to be as well nourished in it as the soul 
is satisfied by it, we will be a happy lot of old 
maids after all.” 

She slipped inside and straightened one of 
the tall, old-fashioned silver candelabra on the 
table, then stood back to notice the effect. 

“Elizabeth’s taste for old-fashioned furnish- 
ings should surely be gratified at last,” she con- 
tinued, laughing slightly. “I admit I am enough 
of a barbarian to enjoy new things, still I think 
she’s right about this room. There isn’t a dis- 
cord in it, she says, and I hope there will be 
pone from it ; but Martha would undo the reso- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


83 


lution of the Pope, and I’m not at all certain 
about our internal harmony until we learn not 
to take advantage of the change that has come 
to us.” 

Joyce laughed and came inside to change the 
position of an olive dish on the table. 

“I agree with Elizabeth about this room,” 
she said presently. “It’s like some people — it 
has got an air about it.” 

They stood a moment looking around, and 
the sun, just sinking in the west, threw a gleam 
of light through the sheer net curtains upon the 
opposite wall and lost itself in the pattern of the 
rug upon the floor. The room was a large 
and bright one, and its furnishings were as old 
wine, rich and mellow. The deep cream tint 
of the walls drew out in full contrast the warm 
glow of the handsome old mahogany furniture, 
the furniture which had once been used in the 
old Virginian home so many years ago, and 
with the white wood-work and odd-shaped 
windows reproduced almost exactly the room 
in which it had so long been in use. 

On the sideboard was the family plate, and 
in the two quaint diamond-paned presses were 
rare bits of china and glass which to Portia, at 
least, were priceless indeed. In the centre of 
the table, at which plates were laid for eight, a 
deep, old-fashioned cut-glass bowl was filled 
with lilacs, white and lavender and purplish 
pink; and at either end silver candelabra of 
colonial pattern held white candles, which were 


»4 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


as yet unlighted. There was no cloth upon the 
table, but through the hand-made mats of 
thread the polished mahogany gleamed rich 
and red, and as Virginia and Joyce looked at 
it, set as was always the custom in their 
dear old Southern homes, they smiled almost 
through tears, and turned quickly away lest 
their happiness should make them do some- 
thing silly and the joy of the present be shad- 
owed by the pain of the past. 

“After years of boarding-house service it 
seems impossible to have a table like that for 
one’s very own, doesn’t it?” said Virginia a 
little tremulously, turning away from the room 
as she spoke. “I’m almost afraid to go to 
sleep at night for fear I’ll wake up and find it 
all a dream.” 

She stopped in front of an old portrait and 
tilted it a little more to one side, then stepped 
back to see if it was right, and as she did so 
the look on Joyce’s face made her burst out 
laughing. 

“If the dining-room is after Elizabeth’s 
heart, this hall is certainly after Portia’s.” 
She rested one arm lightly around Joyce’s neck 
and surveyed rather doubtfully the array of 
old portraits on the walls. “I’m afraid wor- 
ship of my ancestors isn’t one of my fads, but 
I wouldn’t tell Portia so for something pretty. 
She believes in preserving the pictures of the 
dear departed, but if that old gentleman were 
entirely mine I think I’d burn him up.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


85 


“Is that his wife?” asked Joyce, pointing to 
a stern-faced matron with her hands rigidly 
clasped together. 

“I believe so, but I’m not at all certain as to 
which belongs to which. I remember that one, 
however,” and she pointed to the portrait of a 
very beautiful woman in court dress. “She 
was my great, great, great-grandmother I be- 
lieve, and she’s got on the dress she wore when 
she was presented at the court of Somebody 
when my great, great, great-grandfather was 
Minister to Somewhere. I won’t swear to the 
accuracy of that, however,” and she laughed 
carelessly. “Portia is the authority on family 
history — not I.” 

They moved slowly on to the end of the hall 
and stopped for a moment to look down its 
length before they turned to retrace their steps, 
and as they looked a sigh of satisfaction es- 
caped from both. 

The hall was an unusual one in size and 
shape. Crossing the house in the centre at 
right angles it gave a sense of spaciousness and 
coolness that was more than grateful after 
years spent in the contracted quarters of a city 
apartment, and that its furnishing had been a 
matter of careful attention was evident at a 
glance. 

On the polished floor were scattered here and 
there a few handsome oriental rugs. At one 
end an old-fashioned fireplace threw out a glint 
of light from the logs burning cheerily on a 


86 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


pair of andirons Elizabeth had imported from 
her Georgia home, and nearby a claw-foot sofa 
of capacious size suggested days that were long 
since dead. 

On the landing half way up the steps a 
veritable grandfather’s clock, which had been 
Joyce’s gift to Portia, sedately ticked the hours 
away as if aware that it was once more in an 
atmosphere of appreciation and respect, while 
in the centre of the hall, where the angle 
crossed, a heavy round mahogany table, with a 
lamp on it, was filled with books and magazines 
piled carelessly together. Here and there were 
graceful palms and bowls and jars of roses, and 
in the deep window-seats cushions of all sorts 
were temptingly inviting in their soft and 
dainty depths. 

Joyce walked slowly back to the table and 
turned on the light, and the mellow glow from 
the lamp sent a warm thrill across the books 
and stretched faintly out to the four ends of 
the hall. 

“Antiquities are not my fad, but pressing a 
button is,” she said, straightening a rose which 
was drooping in the bowl nearby. Unlike 
Martha, I dearly love to say ‘let there be light’ 
— and there is light. Touch that button near 
you, Virginia, and make this hall a blaze of 
glory.” 

A moment only was given to the library, with 
its cool, green walls, its long, low book shelves, 
its few fine pictures and deep, easy chairs, and 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


87 


but a glance at the music-room just across from 
it; but at Portia’s bed-room door they stood 
for some little while, looking in at the exquisite 
daintiness and simplicity of its furnishing, and 
then Virginia stepped over to the dressing-table 
and opened a miniature case that was lying 
upon it. She held it up to Joyce, and together 
they looked at it in silence, then turned quietly 
and left the room. 

The sound of carriage wheels made them 
quicken their steps, and going out on the 
veranda they reached it in time to see Mr. 
Livingston throw the reins to his man and 
jump from the trap, followed by Brydon, Irv- 
ing, and Laurie, and the greeting they gave and 
received was a merry, cordial one. 

Irving, however, had hardly shaken hands 
before he was at the door, and touching some- 
thing the quaint-looking lanterns hanging from 
the top of the veranda gave out a clear bright 
light, then instantly were dark again. 

“I just wanted to see if they were working 
right,” he explained. “They are only meant 
for clouds and company. How’s Martha get- 
ting on with her ‘lectrics,’ Portia? May I go 
and ask her?” 

The latter nodded and turned to Mr. Liv- 
ingston, who was speaking to her. 

“It was very good of you to let me come,” 
he was saying, but before she could answer, 
Brydon had both her hands in his and was 
shaking them in his old enthusiastic way. 


88 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“Of course it was good of her, jolly good,” 
he interrupted, “though he bolted several other 
bids to get here. However, we want to see the 
house, and Virginia says the inspection can 
begin at once. The itinerary begins with the 
hall, I believe, and no comments are to be made 
on the family portraits. March !” 

He put Portia’s hand on his arm and pushed 
Livingston toward Virginia, and laughingly 
the others fell in line, calling, as they did so, for 
Irving to join them as they entered the door. 

The human heart is very like the human 
heart, and worn indeed must be the one which 
does not respond to that which represents the 
supreme climax of a woman’s work — the mak- 
ing of a home. Very true is it also that places, 
like people, are the exponents of personality, 
and so evident was this of Spinstervilla that 
before the survey of the house was over its 
influence was upon them all, and the silence of 
the men meant more than words, for they felt, 
rather than saw, that rare touch which cannot 
be bought, but has always to be born ; and feel- 
ing it they knew not what to call it, and wisely 
did not try. 

Many-sided is a man’s heart and life, and 
both are touched here by one influence and 
there by another, but deep down in the centre 
of one, or on the edge of the other’s circum- 
ference, is hidden somewhere a spot that is ever 
vulnerable, the spot that one day meant, or 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


89 


some day will mean — home; and the woman 
knows best how to help God who knows best 
how to make one for those she loves. 

They came out again on the veranda to look 
at the lights on the river and to watch the night 
boats as they blinked their way between the 
shadowy shores, and the silence that had some- 
how fallen upon them all was broken just in 
time to save notice by Pleasants’s announce- 
ment that supper was ready. 

Virginia laughed outright as she looked at 
Joyce. 

“You’ll never make a success of him from 
the standpoint of style, Miss Symington!” she 
exclaimed, turning away from the railing on 
which she had been leaning and going toward 
the door. “All day long Joyce has been labor- 
ing over Pleasants trying to teach him certain 
correct formulas, of which ‘supper is ready’ 
was not one,” she added, looking at the others ; 
“but bless his heart! he’s forgotten all about 
them and said the same thing he has heard all 
his life at Aunt Ann’s in Virginia.” 

“I’ll give him a dollar if he’ll keep it up,” 
said Brydon, waiting for Portia to move. “If 
there is anything on earth that I do like to hear 
is ready, it’s supper. It always reminds me of 
my first visit to Uncle Carter’s when I nightly 
tried to take my life with his hot temptations. 
I’ve never had any supper since my last trip 
South, and the Southern blood in me cries out 
for one every now and then, and it’s crying 
loud to-night.” 


9 o 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Portia smiled, and turning to Mr. Livingston 
put her hand within his arm. 

“We are without law and order to-night, ” 
she said laughing gently, “but perhaps we had 
better lead the way. Brydon, you take Joyce ; 
Laurie, Elizabeth ; and Virginia you come with 
Irving,” and she crossed the hall and entered 
the dining-room, which up to this time had not 
been seen by the men. 

An exclamation from Brydon and Irving 
was simultaneous, and the former, dropping 
Joyce, rushed up to Portia and had his arms 
around her before she or the rest could under- 
stand what was the matter. 

“Hot rolls !” they heard him say somewhere 
behind her neck; “hot rolls and sally-lunn like 
old Aunt Melindy used to make! Hot rolls 
and sally-lunn!” and leaving Portia, Brydon 
made a circuit of the table, shaking hands with 
each man in turn, and then stopping at his seat 
he looked at Portia and bent his head quickly. 

The latter’s face flushed slightly, but with 
just the least bit of hesitation she bowed hers 
and said grace, as Brydon remembered her 
father had always done in the old home years 
ago. 

Such a jolly supper it was! Its informality 
was infectious, and Pleasants, who had been 
ordered by Martha to maintain a solemn face 
and a dignified manner throughout the entire 
meal, was soon in an excited state of sup- 
pressed enthusiasm as he danced around the 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


9 * 


table in his efforts to show his familiarity with 
the art of serving. His face was one great 
grin of delight, and fairly shone through the 
perspiration with which it was beaded, and 
while as a butler he was something of a novelty, 
he was immensely enjoyed by all. 

It was an old-fashioned supper, and Martha's 
vanity swelled to grunting proportions of self- 
approbation before it was ended, by Pleasants’s 
repeated visits to the kitchen for fresh relays 
of coffee and tea, hot rolls in various shapes, 
and chicken broiled to a degree of brownness 
that was positive beauty. Salad made by the 
recipe of an old Southern epicure was pro- 
nounced a poem of its kind, and the modern 
chef declared a failure in his serving of the 
same; and justice was done in full measure to 
Martha's specialties as each was served in turn. 

“Them there gent'mens is w'at they call city 
swells, I reckon," said Pleasants, coming into 
the kitchen and holding out the coffee urn to 
be refilled; “but they mus' be jes’ natchrally 
starvin’. I ain’t never seen gent’mens w’at 
eats with more relish, an’ judgin’ by it, I don’t 
reckon they of’en git things fit for w’ite folks, 
savin’ these fancy fixins’ 'thout no substance in 
’em, an’ they’re downright hongry at the taste 
of food. That there gent’man with the glasses 
on, Mr. Livingston, I believe they call him, say 
that old country ham is the best thing he ever 
et in his life, an’ I jes’ whisper to him, fit come 
from old Virginia, where they makes the best 


9 2 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


on earth/ and Pleasants, chuckling to himself, 
trotted out again; and in the kitchen, Martha, 
listening, heard peal after peal of laughter, and 
in her heart was certain that Pleasants was 
responsible for part of it at least. 

Very gaily was the ball of conversation being 
tossed to and fro ; and rapidly it flew from one 
to the other, was caught up, returned, and sent 
back again, when Brydon caused a sudden 
silence to fall for a moment over all. 

Mr. Livingston wanted a slice of sally-lunn. 

“I don't know what you call it, Miss 
Deming,” he said, turning toward Virginia, 
“but it's dangerously fascinating. May I have 
another piece ?” 

Brydon laughed. 

“You’ve been called Miss Deming, Virginia; 
John don’t know yet that doesn’t stand for you. 
Can’t he call her Virginia, Portia ? To call her 
Miss would ruin the ring in her name. John’s 
no stranger ; he’s just been away, that’s all.” 

For a moment there was stillness around the 
table, and Brydon looking up saw Livingston 
was glaring at him and that Virginia’s face was 
flushed, and knew that he had made a break. 
Virginia’s tact was ever readiest, and quickly 
she broke the silence. 

“Brydon is right, Mr. Livingston,” she said 
indifferently, turning toward him. “I am 
never classified formally among my friends, and 
Miss Deming doesn’t belong to me, so per- 
haps when you mean me you had better say 
Virginia.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


93 


“Do you really mean it?” he asked slowly. 
“I should be very glad, for it would help to 
make me forget how much the others have the 
advantage of me,” and his brow cleared from 
the frown with which it was drawn by Bry- 
don’s thoughtless words. 

“Then the privilege must include me also, 
Mr. Livingston,” broke in Joyce promptly. 
“Virginia is only two years younger than I, 
and if, as a spinster, she can be called Virginia, 
I can be called Joyce. Elizabeth is Miss Polk 
to everybody except the few people she likes; 
and the Mother Superior” — and Joyce kissed 
her fingers to Portia — “is Miss Deming to 
every one except to us; but Virginia and I 
claim the privilege of youth,” and again Joyce 
refused to notice that Brydon was trying to 
thank her with his eyes. 

“I don’t claim the privilege of youth,” 
laughed Elizabeth, breaking open a roll and 
letting the steam escape, “and I admit my title 
to the class to which I belong, but if you call 
me Miss Polk, according to Joyce, it will be 
because I don’t like you. I don’t know whether 
I like you or not — I haven’t known you long 
enough' to find out, but as the rest call me 
Elizabeth I guess I will have to risk it with 
you too,” and she smiled good-naturedly at Mr. 
Livingston’s still perplexed face. 

“You’re both very good — and frightfully 
honest,” he added, smiling grimly, “but if you 
ever want to change your mind it will be too 
late. If it is to be Virginia, Joyce, and Eliza- 


94 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


beth now, it is to be Virginia, Joyce, and Eliza- 
beth forever,” and turning he looked Virginia 
full in the face as if to give her another chance 
to settle the matter finally. The latter shot a 
grateful glance at Joyce, but before she could 
speak Brydon was blurting out something 
again. 

“And what’s the matter with calling Portia, 
Portia?” he asked as innocently as if uncon- 
scious that his first suggestion had been a mis- 
take. “Portia’s my older sister and Virginia’s 
my younger one, and John is the nearest thing 
I ever had to a brother, and I don’t see any 
use in cultivating formalities. By the way, 
Portia, did you know the old man who fixed 
your furniture had been paralyzed ? Your side- 
board over there reminds me of him. The 
doctor says he is going to make a die of it this 
time. That’s a daisy sideboard, isn’t it Laurie ? 
— genuine Chippendale,” and Brydon handed 
his plate to Pleasants for another slice of ham. 

The air, which was getting rather heavily 
charged, cleared instantly at the change in the 
conversation caused by the news concerning the 
old cabinet-maker, whom Portia had known for 
years, and when after awhile, just for a taste 
of something sweet, Pleasants brought in some 
brandy peaches and pound cake, Brydon’s ques- 
tion had apparently been forgotten. 

Only for a short time did the men linger over 
their cigars, and when finally the dining-room 
was deserted by them, Portia and Irving were 
goon back in it and deep in the details of certain 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


95 


mechanical arrangements which Martha did 
not understand. 

Laurie drew up a chair for Elizabeth near 
the fireplace, and chunking the logs made them 
blaze cheerfully up and down the depths of the 
chimney, and seating himself near her leaned 
back in quiet content. 

Brydon had taken Joyce to the west veranda 
to show her where he had once thought of buy- 
ing a piece of property some distance up the * 
river, and Virginia and Jonathan Livingston 
found themselves alone in the library. 

Virginia looked around a moment, then seat- 
ed herself in a low chair, and drawing back the 
curtains looked through the window at the 
moon just rising over the trees. 

“Isn’t it queer how people’s tastes differ,” she 
said, nodding first at the veranda and then to- 
ward the fireplace. “Some like it hot and some 
like it cold, though the preference is often a 
matter of convenience — to-night, for instance,” 
and she smiled at Joyce’s well-known propen- 
sity for shivering and Elizabeth’s for suffoca- 
ting. 

Livingston lowered the light until it was soft 
and shaded, then he sat down beside her. 

“And you?” he asked. “How do you like 
it — hot or cold?” 

“Neither. I am so commonplace that I pre- 
fer a happy medium. There is nothing of the 
heroic in me, and I don’t like extremes in any- 
thing.” 


9 6 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


He leaned back and looked at her curiously. 

“You have acquired wisdom, if not length of 
days,” he said presently. “Usually it is on 
the way down, not up, that one realizes life is 
better run on a level.” 

“But do people ever realize it,” she inter- 
rupted, “or rather aren’t the people who realize 
it cowards like I am? I don’t want to go 
through life on a dead level, but I am afraid of 
great heights and deep depths. I might fall 
from one and not rise from the other, and 
either would be humiliating. I think on the 
whole it would be safer to keep the middle of 
the road and avoid oceans and mountains if 
possible,” and she touched the tips of her fin- 
gers together and looked half seriously into his 
face. 

“Unquestionably it would be safer, but un- 
fortunately we don’t have the right of way 
always, and before we know it we’ve knocked 
into somebody or something that breaks up the 
path we prefer to follow.” 

“That is very true, but if we are bumped 
into it may be because we are taking up more 
than our share of room,” and she smiled 
slightly. 

“Perhaps,” and Livingston shaded his eyes 
with his hand as he rested his elbow on the 
table — “perhaps that is true, but I don’t object 
to a little bumping, and I’m certain I don’t like 
dead levels. I prefer a little climbing ; it makes 
one get a better point of view.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


97 


“You mean it makes us see farther? I sup- 
pose it does do that. It shows us many things 
in the distance, but it sometimes keeps us from 
seeing others close at hand, and the things that 
are far from us are not always most worth hav- 
ing. No doubt,” and she hesitated slightly — 
“no doubt I am very old-fashioned, but I think 
I love best the things that are close to me.” 

By length of days Livingston was more than 
ten years Virginia's senior, and in experience 
ten times ten, but as he watched her he won- 
dered how she had discovered the truths that 
time only is supposed to teach, and he won- 
dered also if in her he had found another type 
of the woman species, and the wonder made 
him sigh slightly. 

He got up after a moment and closed the 
window at his back, and as he did so Virginia 
laughed softly. 

“I see how you don’t like it,” she said, with- 
out turning her head in his direction, “and yet 
I doubt very much if you would like it very 
warm. After all, you’re just not quite as hon- 
est as I am. But, Mr. Livingston” — changing 
the subject rather abruptly — “we haven’t half 
thanked you for the flowers you sent from 
Hampstead. Portia wrote a note, I know, but 
we each want to thank you ourselves. The 
house would have looked forlorn without them, 
for nothing ever takes their place, and it was 
very good of you to send such beautiful ones.” 

“It is very good of you to put it in that way,” 
he answered, smiling doubtfully. “However, 


9 8 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


the pleasure was mine, for I was not at all sure 
McRae could get up a decent lot. But the 
lilacs on the table? They were not from 
Hampstead.” 

“Oh, no! They were from Virginia,” she 
replied, getting up as Joyce and Brydon came 
in and the others were heard coming down the 
hall. “George sent those because he knows 
I love them so. It was very good in him to re- 
member, but then George never forgets.” 

She turned to Brydon, then glanced at the 
clock in surprise. “Did you know it was after 
eleven, Portia?” she called. “I did not know 
it had struck ten.” 

“It didn’t,” laughed Brydon, “the hour van- 
ished without record ; but Portia says we’ve got 
to go.” 

In the good-nights that followed, Brydon 
drew Portia aside and put his hands on her 
shoulders so he could better see her face. 

“Joyce tells me I made a mess of it to-night,” 
he said a little anxiously. “But I thought of 
all people on earth you could see the difference 
between familiarity and a lack of formality, 
and John is like my brother, you know.” 

Portia looked up almost wearily. 

“Yes, I know, dear, but other people don’t. 
We must not talk of it to-night, however. It 
will be all right, no doubt, and of course I un- 
derstand how you meant it,” and she turned to 
tell Irving good-night, 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


99 


They drove off in the moonlight to Hamp- 
stead some two miles away, and soon in both 
houses there was deep sleep and darkness for 
all save the owners of each. 

Hour after hour Jonathan Livingston sat by 
his open window and let the cool night air blow 
upon his face. Not until the dawn was break- 
ing did he leave it, and then he opened his door 
and walked rapidly down the hall to the room 
in which Brydon slept. He entered it and 
roused him none too gently. 

“Brydon,” he said, shaking him again and 
again, “who is the George that sent the lilacs 
to Spinstervilla ? George who ?” 

Brydon roused himself grumblingly. 

“Who is who?” he asked sleepily. “Who 
sent the lilacs? Oh, George Nelson, Vir- 
ginia’s cousin I believe. What in the Devil do 
you want to know this time of night for?” and 
by the time Livingston had reached the door 
Brydon was asleep again. 

Over at Spinstervilla Portia lay still and 
sleepless in her bed while the hours ticked 
themselves slowly away, and the silence of the 
house was as that in which there is no life. 

When at last she fell asleep she dreamed she 
was standing in an unknown land, and with her 
arms around Virginia was keeping off a surg- 
ing multitude of indefinable shapes that were 
pressing her close, and filling her beautiful eyes 
with doubt and distress and despair; and the 
question in them was one that Portia dare not 
face, for it was one she dare not answer for her. 


L of 0. 


CHAPTER X 


It was Portia who decided that the summer 
should be a long, delicious holiday, and her 
decision was accepted without protest. 

Portia was very proud of her girls. Un- 
mindful that it was her guidance that had led 
them into those fields in which they could do 
most effective work, and out of others for 
which they had no vital power or technical 
skill ; unmindful that it was her firm but helpful 
grasp which had held them there until they had 
served their apprenticeship well, had done their 
drudgery faithfully, she only saw now that 
they were worthy members of that large sister- 
hood of women who work intelligently and per- 
sistently, and therefore successfully, and she 
was proud of them, very proud. 

Each was making an income that was satis- 
factory and that promised well for the future; 
but if others envied them as having acquired 
it through genius, or luck, or influence, they 
judged wrongly. They were making it through 
singleness of purpose and the use of the gift 
they believed they could best develop, and their 
success had been gained, as success demands 
ever to be gained, after months and years of 
intelligent toil and persistent preparation. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


IOI 


This summer, however, they had earned their 
rest, and they should have it, Portia had de- 
clared. After the first of June no work should 
be done until October. Four months of holi- 
day, four months of happiness, four months of 
luxurious do-nothingness! they had cried joy- 
fully, and the coming days looked very bright 
and beautiful. 

For each of them this change of rest and 
relaxation was a timely one, but for Elizabeth 
it was especially so. Slender and frail in body, 
she had barely enough flesh and blood and bone 
to keep her soul from showing, Joyce told her 
continually ; but the lack of flesh and blood and 
bone was overcome by an unusual supply of 
nerve power, and it was a continual source of 
anxiety to the others that she was so reckless in 
her demands upon the latter. 

Her deep, dark eyes were clear and bright, 
and flashed or faded as the mood possessed her, 
while her soft black hair was a sharp contrast 
to the olive complexion of her face, which 
rarely had color in it. Intense in her feelings, 
she neither loved nor hated half way, and 
Portia had seen from the first that hers was a 
friendship well worth the having. 

By that indefinable adjustment which natures 
of absolute oppositeness frequently make to the 
surprise of themselves, Elizabeth and Portia 
had been drawn toward each other by the law 
of contrast, and their comradeship, based upon 
the recognition of their vital differences, had 


102 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


through those very differences grown close and 
deep and tender, and made the one the comple- 
ment of the other. Unsparing of herself, Eliz- 
abeth spent her energy lavishly, and Portia un- 
derstood well that had the holiday not come to 
her at Spinstervilla, it would have been neces- 
sary to have found one somewhere else. 

The days passed quickly, too quickly because 
so happily, and the adjusting of their lives to 
the conditions of the new life was accomplished 
very easily and with ready abandonment on the 
part of each. 

The days were not idle days, however. A 
full measure of recreation and pleasure-making 
was pressed into each, and Portia and Elizabeth 
were beginning to realize that they were get- 
ting just a little tired of the continual demands 
upon their time that Brydon and Livingston 
were constantly making in their repeated invi- 
tations to take this and that little trip and to go 
on this or that little outing. 

“It isn’t that I don’t enjoy going,” Elizabeth 
had declared in confidence one night to Portia, 
“but I am beginning to realize Pm a spinster in 
more than name, and I get tired of so much 
frolicking. The trips on Mr. Livingston’s 
yacht ought to be blissful, and we’re the luck- 
iest lot of old maids on earth to have one at 
our disposal, but I never could bear a boat. I 
always feel too as if I ought to walk with 
my eyes shut for fear of seeing something I 
oughtn’t. A man on a boat with a girl and a 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


103 


moon means future trouble. Last week I 
nearly sat down in Brydon’s lap — fortunately 
I got in Joyce’s instead. They were huddled 
together in a little dark corner like two anar- 
chists, and of course I didn’t see them. I 
thought they were in the bow of the boat with 
Virginia and Mr. Livingston, and went stag- 
gering along with my head in the air — it was 
the night the water was so rough — and the 
first thing I knew I was pretty nearly in Bry- 
don’s arms.” 

She laughed good-naturedly, then looked at 
Portia perplexedly. 

“How are things progressing, Portia ? Has 
Joyce said anything lately?” 

“Not a word,” and Portia smiled slightly at 
the look on Elizabeth’s face. “I think, how- 
ever, it will be all right in time. Sometimes I 
imagine Joyce hardly realizes herself the cause 
of her indecision; but if Brydon were a poor 
man she would not keep him waiting so long 
for a final answer. She is testing her own 
heart unconsciously, and it has pleased me 
greatly that she is not letting any other con- 
siderations have weight with her than her love 
for him and his love for her.” 

Elizabeth laid down the book she had been 
reading and clasped her hands behind her head. 

“It would be a temptation to some women, 
perhaps, to have great wealth offered them, but 
I do not think it is to Joyce. She is too inher- 
ently honest to be swayed by things of that 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


IO4 

sort; but if she loves Brydon, I can’t imagine 
why she will not promise to marry him.” 

“I think she is not quite ready to make such 
a promise yet — is not quite sure. If the test 
should ever come, however, Brydon need not 
fear. They are both young enough to do a 
little waiting, and Brydon knows it is best to let 
her take her own time. I want this summer to 
be a happy one,” Portia continued slowly, “and 
for the present, at least, it is wiser perhaps not 
to look into the future.” 

Unconsciously she sighed a little quivering 
sigh that she quickly tried to hide, but Eliza- 
beth’s keen ears heard it and a wave of tender 
sympathy swept over her, for she understood 
well what it meant. 

Elizabeth was by nature a “protester.” All 
of her life she had been repudiating assertions 
and assurances which were ready made, and by 
those who did not know or understand the 
eagerness of her questioning heart to learn the 
deep truths of life, its deeper mysteries and its 
surest hope, she was regarded with a sort of 
Christian horror as a young woman who had 
views which it was not proper for young 
women to have. Elizabeth didn’t pretend to 
be proper. She went to church regularly, stayed 
through the service, and let the music, and par- 
ticularly Virginia’s part of it, take her into that 
wonder world of hope and peace and trust 
which one can only enter through revelation; 
and then she would slip out and go down 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 105 

among the poor, or to some quiet spot in the 
park, or in the country where she could be still 
and listen to God, and let her spirit reach out 
after His; would go where there would be no 
jarring interpretation of His word or of His 
mission among men ; and then she would come 
back home quietly, and the light in her face 
would show that the day had had its lesson for 
her. 

In many matters she did not altogether agree 
with conventional points of view, and yet she 
was careful not to thrust her own upon others. 
When she heard the smothered sigh of 
Portia she knew well what had caused it and 
her heart went out toward her with a patience 
that no one else but Portia could have excited, 
for toward no one else would she have felt it. 

She took up a calendar from the table near 
which she sat and looked at it carelessly, then 
as she realized the date she put it down slowly. 
Less than three months ago a new friend had 
come into their lives. Less than three months 
ago they had met Mr. Livingston accidentally 
on the veranda of their still unfinished house, 
and from that day to the present she had seen 
that he was a force to be reckoned with, 
had seen too that Portia had instantly felt the 
power of his presence. She had watched him 
closely, had seen him carefully control his every 
word and look and act, and in her heart had 
smiled to think how impossible it was for a 
man of his nature to long restrain himself — 
and yet he thought the secret was still his own. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Io6 

She glanced across at Portia. Why did 
things in life get so terribly twisted ? Why did 
Portia not rejoice that the love of such a man 
was given to her sister ? And why did she per- 
plex herself with questions that could not be 
answered ? 

The thought rather stifled her, and she got 
up and went out on the veranda, where Liv- 
ingston was telling to Joyce and Virginia the 
story of a Samoan experience. Brydon was 
off on a visit to his mother, and during his 
absence there had been a lull in their drives and 
golf, their yachting parties and little trips to 
nearby resorts. They had missed him strangely 
and were planning a happy welcome for him on 
his return. 

After his mother had established herself in 
her summer home, Brydon had established him- 
self at Hampstead, and though both he and 
Livingston went daily into the city, when not 
off on a short trip on the latter’s yacht, they 
usually returned by an early train and their 
evenings were invariably spent at Spinstervilla. 
Irving and Laurie too were frequently with 
them, and the summer promised to be very 
happy, and each day that went by was be- 
grudged by the members of Portia’s little 
household as they rested in their first luxurious 
holiday for many years. 

Elizabeth stood in the doorway for a mo- 
ment watching the group in front of her, and 
then she called Joyce in to show her a piece of 
lace she was making. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE I07 

“Joyce doesn’t know it,” laughed Virginia, 
“but she’s as restless as a bird when Brydon is 
away. I don’t believe she’s sat in one place 
two minutes at a time to-day.” 

“And yet she will not marry him,” said Liv- 
ingston. “If she loves him, why does she tor- 
ment him with this uncertainty? Surely 
woman is the enigma of all ages !” 

“And Joyce is so verily a woman,” and Vir- 
ginia laughed again. “She presumes upon the 
prerogative of her sex in being incomprehensi- 
ble, I suppose, but Brydon is hardly suffering. 
Some day she will marry him, but she is not 
ready to do so yet.” 

“But that is the incomprehensible part of it,” 
Livingston urged a little impatiently. “If she 
is some day going to marry him, why make it 
an indefinite matter? Life is too short to be 
spent in separation from those one loves, and 
no man or woman has the right to trifle with 
the happiness of another.” 

“She is not trifling with his happiness,” 
answered Virginia quickly. “She is only test- 
ing her own heart that she may be certain there 
is no shadow of doubt or mistrust in it. Bry- 
don can well afford to be patient, for Joyce will 
not compromise with anything but the best her 
whole heart and soul can give.” 

Livingston did not answer, and Virginia, 
leaning back in her chair, looked out into space 
as if she were speaking to some one far away. 

“Love does not come alike to all,” she said 


io8 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


presently. “Some know it instantly and feel 
its power at once, while others hesitate and are 
afraid. No one can judge or understand, per- 
haps, its meaning to another.” 

Livingston leaned over and looked at her 
gravely. 

“And you,” he asked gently, “how will love 
come to you?” 

She got up from her chair and moved toward 
the door. 

“I do not know,” she answered slowly, and 
in the darkness her face whitened. “I think 
we had better go in, it has turned so cool and 
damp.” 


CHAPTER XI 


Refuse to admit it ; treat it indifferently when 
happening to mention it ; be a little ashamed of 
the flush of pleasure its receipt created, never- 
theless, in the heart of its recipient an invitation 
to the home of Mrs. Jenifer Irskine Field never 
failed to excite a thrill of social exultation that 
was rarely caused by any other envelope, be its 
contents signed by whomsoever it may. 

Had Mrs. Jenifer Irskine Field been a man 
she would have been a leader along those lines 
which would have placed her on a pinnacle, 
where she could have been seen, but not touched 
by the madding crowd which had put her 
there ; but not being a man she had wisely con- 
sidered the various and separate circles into 
which humanity is divided, and, after deliberate 
contemplation, had concluded that the one in 
which she would reign must be exclusively 
limited. More than her share of worldly wis- 
dom had come to this lady aristocratic even in 
the days of her youth; and knowing full well 
that her wit and beauty must be supplemented 
by wealth if she would rule in the world of her 
choice, she had deliberately exchanged them 
both in consideration of a marriage dower that 
would place her where she wished. 


no 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Her husband was many years her senior, and 
a short while after the birth of her only child, 
Brydon, he had been considerate enough to 
bow himself out of the way and leave her a 
young widow with much wealth to her credit 
and a baby boy to keep up the name. 

It was an act of delicate thoughtfulness 
on his part of which she had hardly thought 
him capable, and the result was an agreeable 
memory and the conviction that she had been 
ever a faithful and devoted wife. 

She was a far-seeing woman, also, was Bry- 
don Field’s mother, and she had early learned 
that people and sheep have similar propensities. 
As she preferred to lead rather than follow, 
she came back to New York, after an absence of 
some years abroad, and very quietly but firmly 
established herself as an exclusive element of 
that rather heterogeneous whole which society 
has classed as society. 

Most people want to go where most people 
can’t go, and recognizing this, in a carefully 
discriminating way Mrs. Jenifer Irskine Field 
began to ask a few friends and foreigners to 
her really very beautiful home to meet a few 
other friends and foreigners, who perhaps were 
already there, or who were visiting the city. 
And the culling of her list was so markedly evi- 
dent that the goats who were cut out were grad- 
ually ignored by the sheep who were let in, and 
in time it was thoroughly understood that as a 
social autocrat Mrs. Field was an acknowledged 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


III 


success. Extreme wealth could not force an 
entrance within her guarded doors were it un- 
accompanied by some other desirable passport, 
and genius might knock in vain at her portals 
had it not been properly placed by time which 
had weighed it well. Understanding fully that 
human nature demands limitation as a supreme 
climax to its social structure, she had given evi- 
dence of her qualities of leadership by ever 
maintaining a strict observance of her rule to 
allow no one to enter her realm save those to 
whom she personally extended the right of ad- 
mittance. And her little world had followed and 
had thought itself a big world, the biggest, 
greatest world of all worlds, because it was so 
little and so limited, and because its garments 
had been designed by a woman who made them 
after a pattern which few could wear. 

That Brydon was the son of such a mother 
was one of nature’s perversities — one of her 
misfits which she every now and then tosses 
into the human family to torment it with per- 
plexity as to how it got there; and though for 
years Mrs. Field had refused to believe she 
would not conquer him in the end, of late she 
had realized that the final issue was but a mat- 
ter of time. She had long known that his warm, 
sunny nature was as firm and unyielding as her 
colder, sterner one, and she also understood that 
when the clash did come it might be defeat for 
her but never surrender from him. 

That it should not come was the one thing 
in life she was most decided upon. And yet she 


1 12 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


was horribly conscious that the fear in her heart 
which had been born when she had learned of 
Portia’s life in New York would one day prove 
uncontrollable, and her jealous antagonism to- 
ward her express itself in a way that Brydon 
would never forget or forgive. She realized 
bitterly that even as a boy she had had no in- 
fluence whatever over him, but that Portia had 
had a most powerful one, and she had hated 
Portia for it; and the first serious encounter 
she had ever had with Brydon was when she 
refused to invite the former to her house as he 
had requested her to do when he had discov- 
ered her in the city, struggling to earn her 
daily bread. 

Up to the time of this discovery no anxious 
thought concerning his future had ever entered 
his mother’s heart; but since then, though the 
change was slow and subtle, she could not fail 
to see that a new atmosphere had come into his 
life, and that a steady strengthening of some 
rather irritating tendencies which he had early 
developed had gradually grown more pro- 
nounced, and more and more difficult had it be- 
come to keep him up to the requirements of his 
social position. 

She knew little of the life her nieces led. She 
did all that civility required in making them a 
semi-annual visit and in having sent to them 
at Christmas a remembrance of the day, and 
having done this she wished nothing more to 
be said about them. Portia and Virginia, and 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


n 3 

their two friends, had joined the ranks of the 
women who work. She did not know women 
who worked. There were many who did it, 
she understood, but they were not of her kind, 
and she did not wish to hear anything con- 
cerning them. It was not required of her to 
know how the world moved on, or how men 
and women made their way within it. It was 
hers to keep inviolate the sacred circle of earth’s 
favored few ; and that her son should find pleas- 
ure in going outside his own peculiar province 
was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying, 
and as mortifying as it was true. 

All this and more she had realized for sev- 
eral years past, but never had the subject been 
mentioned between them since the day she had 
expressed to Brydon her disapproval of his fre- 
quent visits to his cousins, and he had very 
politely, but firmly, intimated that he was en- 
tirely capable of deciding that question for him- 
self. 

Brydon had controlled himself, but she saw 
instantly that she had made a mistake, and the 
fear was born that something more than cous- 
inly interest must be prompting his persistency 
in retaining a friendship that he knew so well 
was in opposition to her wishes. For some time 
this fear smouldered in her heart as a hateful 
possibility, and when later it threatened to be- 
come a certainty she could stand it no longer, 
and in a moment of desperation she did the un- 
usual thing of calling upon Portia in a much 
more informal way than was her custom. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


II 4 

When she reentered her carriage she called 
to the coachman to drive in the park, — drive, 
though the day was cold, — drive until she told 
him to stop; and two tiny red spots on her 
cheeks told of a heat which burnt deep within 
her heart. She had found out the cause of Bry- 
don’s loyalty and love for his cousins. For his 
cousins! Bah! Not Portia, not Virginia, nor 
the slender girl they called Elizabeth, but that 
tall, handsome one with her Irish gray-blue 
eyes, and splendid wealth of rippling, reddish 
hair, and hands that a Hebe might have envied. 
She knew her at once, knew her just as the girl 
knew why she had come. There had been a 
subtle electric current transmitted suddenly 
from each, and the challenge was sharp and si- 
lent, and accepted instantly by both. Had the 
girl been of her son’s world she would have 
made a glorious figure in it. Her head was not 
put upon her shoulders to droop — it was meant 
to be held high and straight, and she held it so 
full well. 

But who was she? Who was she? An un- 
known struggler in the world of art. A de- 
signer of some kind who did something for 
book covers and magazines; who illustrated 
stories and made miniatures of children, and 
did various other things ; a girl who, if her eyes 
or fingers gave out, would lose her weapons of 
defense against a big, wide world. And her 
son in love with this ? Her son ! She brought 
her lips down closely together and lifted her 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 115 

veil that the air might cool her burning face, 
which grew white with fear and then red with 
anger. Anger that after all her years of train- 
ing this should be the result; and fear that 
though she and all his world would resent his 
marriage with an obscure member of an un- 
known society, it would no more affect his de- 
cision to do so than the babbling of the brook 
she was passing would loosen the rock over 
which it tumbled. 

She did not mention this visit to Brydon, but 
she understood perfectly well that he knew all 
about it, and when a few weeks later she an- 
nounced her intention of going to London for 
a short stay, she was not surprised at his re- 
fusal to accompany her. 

In response to her cable he had come, how- 
ever; but finding it impossible to keep him 
there she had promptly returned with him. 
When she learned, on reaching home, that Jona- 
than Livingston had also gotten back, she felt 
as if the enemy were indeed closing in around 
her; and a deadly sickness seized her at thd 
thought that one word of his would have more 
weight with Brydon than all of her life teach- 
ing or desires. 

She disliked Livingston fervidly. He had a 
way of making one feel that pretense was un- 
necessary and platitudes a pretense. Never- 
theless, even she could not afford to ignore him, 
and if perhaps she could win him to her point 
of view, she might yet be able to overcome 


II 6 WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 

what she still refused to believe was but a piece 
of boyish infatuation on Brydon’s part, for a 
pretty face. 

All this she had thought over carefully, and 
then had issued invitations to a dinner party in 
his honor, which should be the last before her 
city home was closed for the season ; and it was 
after this dinner that she intended to find out 
just what Livingston knew or just what he 
would tell. 

As she waited for her guests she leaned back 
in her chair and tapped her lips slightly and 
absently with her fan, and as Brydon entered 
the room the blood in her heart thickened and 
her throat contracted strangely. He came to- 
ward her with his watch in his hand. “Com- 
mend me,” he said lightly; “I am actually 
ready ten minutes ahead of time. Isn’t it 
pretty warm in here ?” 

He walked over to a side window and opened 
it and let the fresh night air come in, then came 
back and rested his elbow on the mantel. As 
he stood there leaning easily against it, his 
clean-shaven face gave him, at the first glance, 
a boyish look that made him seem younger than 
he was ; but the lines about his mouth were firm 
and strong, and the dark gray eyes which were 
usually full of a jolly sort of light were to-night 
full of purpose, and looking at him his mother 
knew he was a man, every inch of him, and a 
deep, bitter resentment against the girl whom 
she feared had won his heart filled her with 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 117 

sudden rage. An irresistible desire to ask him 
if it were true, swept violently over her, and 
though she knew it was a dangerous subject, 
and to-night a particularly unwise time to touch 
upon it, she yielded to the recklessness that, at 
his entrance into the room, had seized her, and 
felt that she must know the truth or suffocate 
before the evening was over. 

All the repressed anxiety of months past 
came up in one great leap, and though she had 
not intended to throw down the gauntlet, she 
threw it now bitterly — threw it in desperation 
and despair, because of the light that was in 
his eyes, and because of the grave gentleness in 
his face. 

She leaned back yet farther in her chair, and 
her eyelids half covered her eyes as she opened 
and shut her fan nervously, and then suddenly 
she sat upright. 

“I was congratulated this afternoon,” she 
said, after a moment of oppressive silence, her 
voice cold and hard, “on the approaching mar- 
riage of my son to a young woman whose name 
had not been heard, or, rather, not recognized. 
May I ask if the name is one that I know?” 

The scorn in her voice sent the hot blood 
over Brydon’s face in one great wave, then left 
it white — whiter than she had ever seen it. 
He looked at his mother steadily for a moment 
as he still leaned against the mantel, then drew 
a deep breath before he answered. 

“You are at liberty to ask any question you 
wish,” he said presently, putting both hands in 


Il8 WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 

his pockets and setting his back squarely 
against the mantel. “I am sorry your con- 
gratulations are a little premature, however. 
To tell you they were in order would be a 
supreme happiness; but while it is very true I 
have asked Miss Symington to be my wife, as 
yet she has not consented to do so ; in fact, for 
the present, she refuses to discuss the matter 
with me.” 

At his words his mother rose slowly from 
her chair. 

“Has not consented to be your wife — refuses 
to discuss the matter with you?” she repeated 
incredulously. “And why, may I ask?” 

The scorn and unbelief in her voice made it 
shrill and high, and for once she was deaf to 
its lack of modulation. 

“She has not told me why. I rather im- 
agine, however, she does not think she would 
be a dutiful daughter-in-law,” and Brydon 
smiled grimly. 

“Nor a desirable one, she also no doubt 
knows,” sneered his mother. 

“No, she does not know that — nor do I,” he 
answered quickly, for the first time speaking 
sharply. “And I must beg you to remember, 
mother, that the woman you are speaking of 
is the woman I have asked to be my wife. I 
have wanted to talk with you about this be- 
fore, for it is only right that you should hear 
from me and not from others that my marriage 
is dependent only upon her consent; and that 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


II 9 


I have not done so is because I knew you did 
not care to hear it, and had no word of welcome 
for her or sympathy for me. That I am mar- 
rying against your approval I know most re- 
gretfully; but that with or without it I shall 
marry Joyce, if she will marry me, I want you 
to understand right now, to-night; and more- 
over, should she consent to become my wife, as 
I pray God she may, she must be received as 
your daughter or else you will lose a son.” 

“Then I will lose a son!” 

The words rang out defiantly, and the 
woman who uttered them looked with blazing 
eyes at the man opposite, and a passion of love 
and hate ran rapidly over her handsome, 
haughty face. For the first time in her life 
she had been brought to bay, for the first time 
defied, and the fury of it made her forget her- 
self, made her unmindful of her words. 

Brydon shrugged his shoulders and bowed 
slightly. 

“As you will,” he said indifferently, and 
started to leave the room. 

She motioned him back. 

“May I ask who is this woman you intend to 
marry ?” 

“When you ask properly, you may.” 

She laughed insolently. 

“The lady whom you propose to marry — 
this Miss Symington,” and she bowed sweep- 
ingly. “May I ask who she is?” 

“She is a lady who does not find it necessary 
to proclaim her pedigree — it speaks for itself; 


120 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


and as I am in love with her, not her ancestors, 
I have never inquired concerning them. ,, 

For a moment each stood confronting the 
other as do those fencing in a duel that prom- 
ises to be deadly, but before either could speak 
again the first of their guests were announced, 
and Brydon turning to greet them, masked well 
his face from the anger and hurt in his heart. 

The dinner was a perfect one — Mrs. Field’s 
dinners were always perfect; and as Mr. Liv- 
ingston glanced around the table with its costly 
appointments and noiseless service, the remem- 
brance of the supper at Spinstervilla came over 
him as a cool, fresh breath in the perfumed air 
of a close conservatory, and the girl who was 
sitting next to him had to ask twice if he found 
New York much changed, before he heard or 
answered her. 

“I beg pardon,” he said quickly, turning to- 
ward her. “Do I find New York much 
changed? Yes, I suppose I do, though the 
people, more than the place, seem strange to 
me. It doesn’t take twenty years to make a 
Rip Van Winkle of a man, so far as the spot he 
once filled is concerned. Many years less will 
make a change in anything or anybody — except 
a woman, of course — and I haven’t exactly got- 
ten people placed just yet. The girl over there 
with McCabe, who is she? Did I ever know 
her?” 

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” laughed Miss 
Brown, taking up an olive and eyeing it crit- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


12 1 


ically. “She wore short frocks and plaited 
hair when you left New York, and gave no 
evidence whatever of becoming a beauty. 
She’s Jack van Hern’s youngest sister, and her 
engagement has just been announced to Major 
Julian Dupree.” 

“Major Julian Dupree? Not the Julian Du- 
pree who married Frances Gillette? I had not 
heard his wife was dead.” 

“She isn’t — she’s alive again. Major Julian 
and she found out they had made a mistake, 
and so they wisely decided to undo it. She 
took the child and married some one she liked 
better. He has enjoyed his fling to the full, 
but he’s concluded to go into bondage again. 
Foolish man, isn’t he?” 

The girl at his side rattled on, and Living- 
ston, only half heeding, wondered who she was 
and where she had come from. She was a 
stranger, yet her face was slightly familiar, and 
he felt tempted to ask her if she too hhd worn 
short frocks and plaited hair when he went 
away; but a glance at her when she turned to 
speak to the man on her other side made him 
see it would be a wrong question and he wisely 
withheld it. 

“The woman near the end of the table, the 
one with Mr. Field — do you know her?” she 
asked, turning to him again. “She is said to 
be the handsomest woman in New York, and 
the most stupid. Fler blood is royal purple, 
however, and she’s a daughter of Croesus, also, 


122 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


so of course nothing else matters. She has a 
habit of setting men crazy, I understand. Her 
eyes are more dangerous than dynamite. 
Aren’t you afraid for your friend’s safety ?” 

“Not exactly; Brydon isn’t that kind. Who 
is the man next to Miss van Hern on her left?” 

“The Hon. Sir Richard Craven. Mrs. Field 
is decidedly English in her tendencies and hopes 
in another life to be able to conceal the fact that 
she’s entirely American. Do you know the 
girl with him?” 

Livingston shook his head. 

“Mrs. Field evidently thinks I need repair- 
ing socially. She has surrounded me almost 
entirely with strangers to-night. I have met 
them, of course, but the names made little im- 
pression. Unfortunately names refuse to stick 
to me, somehow.” 

“Then don’t go in for politics, or you’d flunk 
badly. I wonder if you know what my name 
is and where I came from ?” 

“Not where you came from, but your name 
isn’t a strain,” and Livingston laughingly 
raised a glass of water to his lips. 

The girl laughed also. 

“To be born a Brown is bearable only from 
lack of responsibility, but to marry a Brown is 
unpardonable, and yet the dearest woman at 
this table deliberately did it. Love played her 
a trick and she’s never once regretted it.” 

Livingston glanced in the direction she indi- 
cated and the woman opposite him looked up 
at the same time. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


123 


“We’ve been speculating about you for the 
last five minutes,” she said, nodding to him 
gaily. “And now, perhaps, you can help us 
decide the question. Porterfield says you won’t 
be in New York six months before you’ll be 
longing for bears and bugs and icebergs to 
write about, and when I tell him I don’t believe 
it he says I know nothing about it. Now tell 
him he is wrong and that you are really going 
to settle down and stay home. My boys are 
aching with curiosity to hear every detail of 
your African experiences, and I promised them 
to-night they should do so soon if I had to have 
you brought down in a patrol wagon.” 

Livingston laughed easily. 

“It won’t be necessary. I haven’t forgotten 
that your will is law. I’m coming round one 
day this week, and if you’ll trust the boys with 
me, I’ll take them out to Hampstead and show 
them one or two things they might like to see.” 

Mrs. Brown clasped her hands enthusiasti- 
cally. 

“What bliss for the boys! By the way, 
speaking of Hampstead reminds me of a new 
story. Roy Dimmock spent a day or so with 
Mr. Sexton last week and he says the latter is 
very much upset over some new neighbors who 
have built an old-fashioned house on the pret- 
tiest piece of property in that section. He 
bought several acres of it from its new owner — 
some old maid, he says, and he would have 
bought it all rather than have had these un- 


124 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


known quantities come up there to live. He 
can’t find out anything about them except that 
the place is called Spinstervilla and is occupied 
by four spinsters. Thus far he hasn’t met one 
of them, and Roy says he is downright ugly in 
his insinuations about them.” 

Brydon stirred uneasily, as if he would in- 
terrupt the speaker; but Livingston, toying 
carelessly with a slender glass, spoke first. 

“Sexton is a fool and always has been. If 
he wants to know anything of his new neigh- 
bors, whom I have the honor of knowing, I 
can tell him whatever is necessary. It would 
be just as well, however, for him to confine his 
inquiries to me, or Brydon, for they are ladies 
who are not accustomed to having their names 
handed around in public.” 

A subtle shiver ran quickly over every spinal 
column present, as Livingston’s words reached 
even the ends of the table, and a silence that 
was rather ominous fell suddenly upon the 
chatter of a moment before. Sexton had been 
called a fool and at Mrs. Field’s table ! All 
present agreed with the assertion, but they only 
mentioned it in private, for Sexton’s name rep- 
resented too much in the world of wealth and 
fashion to be handled other than guardedly; 
but it was delicious to witness such an exhibi- 
tion of nerve, and Mrs. Brown, at least, en- 
joyed it immensely. 

“Don’t say I said it,” she laughed, “but I 
think Roy rather agrees with you. But who 
are these charming mysteries, and from whence 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


125 


do they come, and whither do they go, and why 
do they brand themselves as Spinsters ?” 

Brydon leaned forward and took a few al- 
monds from a dish and smiled provokingly at 
the two rows of faces which were waiting an 
answer, but for a moment or two he did not 
speak. A mystery has a magical effect, and a 
woman and a mystery is too much for flesh and 
blood, no matter how well trained, and except 
at Mrs. Field’s end of the table, where she kept 
up an animated conversation, a silence had 
fallen upon all. 

Brydon put an almond in his mouth and held 
another between his fingers, while with his eyes 
he signaled Livingston to let him speak. 

“I hardly think the occupants of Spinster- 
villa can be called mysteries,” he said pleas- 
antly, turning to Mrs. Brown — “though charm- 
ing they undoubtedly are. From whence they 
came I can tell you readily, but whither they go 
is a matter of anxiety to more than one of their 
friends — to me for instance.” 

He took another almond, and though his 
face was white, he nodded at Livingston and 
they both laughed. 

Miss van Hern clapped her hands energeti- 
cally. 

“The mystery is solved, is solved !” she cried, 
almost rising from her chair. “We’ve been 
hearing all sorts of fairy tales about you, Bry- 
don, and now the secret is out. She lives at 
Spinstervilla, and she isn’t a spinster at all. 
Here’s to the unknown! Drink — all of you!” 


126 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Every glass near her was raised, but a crash 
at the end of the table caused some slight con- 
fusion. Mrs. Field had sacrificed her gown to 
distract attention, but the sacrifice was unsuc- 
cessful. 

“Thanks, awfully/’ said Brydon, wiping his 
lips carefully. “If you’ve heard anything nice 
lately I hope it will all come true, but just at 
present I’m not very hopeful. However, as 
the owner of Spinstervilla is my best-loved 
cousin, and almost sister, I’m afraid you’ve 
gotten things slightly mixed. Mr. Atkins, you 
probably remember Miss Deming, who visited 
my mother a good many years ago; and if so 
you can tell Mrs. Brown that Portia is not a 
mystery, but genuine flesh and blood, can’t 
you ?” 

The man addressed — a large, handsome man, 
with classic face and iron-gray hair — took off 
his glasses and held them in his hand as he 
looked at Brydon incredulously. 

“Do I remember ?” he repeated slowly. “Do 
you mean to say she is living in New York?” 

His hand trembled slightly as he lifted a 
wine glass, and several around the table looked 
at each other significantly. Things were get- 
ting interesting. They had often wondered 
why Gervas Atkins had never married. 

“She is living very near the city, though it 
has been only a short while since she left it,” 
answered Brydon, remembering for the first 
time some story he had once heard about At- 
kins and Portia, and regretting he had asked 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


127 


him about her. “Less than a year ago she had 
some money and a piece of property left her, 
and she has built a home on the latter, which 
is most pleasantly located overlooking the river 
and only a short ride from town. She has 
named the place Spinstervilla because of its 
appropriateness, she says; for her sister, Vir- 
ginia, lives with her, and two friends, Miss 
Polk of Georgia and Miss Symington of South 
Carolina.” 

“But why have we been debarred the pleas- 
ure of meeting them?” asked Sir Richard 
Craven, leaning over and peering at Brydon 
through his monocle. “It would be a great 
privilege to meet your cousins, I am sure,” and 
he bowed sweepingly in Mrs. Field’s direction. 

The latter rose from her seat, and immedi- 
ately all followed her example; but Brydon, 
looking at her, refused to be silent. 

“I am also very sure of it, Sir Richard, but 
unfortunately my cousins refuse to be met. 
They are very busy women, who for some time 
past have been struggling with the realities of 
life, and as they cannot work and play both, 
they refuse to come back into the world from 
which the loss of their money made them neces- 
sarily withdraw.” 

As Brydon stopped, the men stood aside to 
let the ladies pass out, and the look his mother 
gave him was not lost upon them, for each man 
present felt himself possessed of a sudden de- 
sire to shake hands with him, and to shake 
hands good and hard. 


CHAPTER XII 


Indecision had never been a characteristic of 
Jonathan Livingston, and when, after a long 
absence, he decided to return home, he had 
taken passage in the first ship going out after 
he reached Liverpool. Two weeks later he 
had secured apartments in the city, opened a 
law office, and had a force of workmen at 
Hampstead, his country home, getting it in 
order as a depository for his things and as a 
place where he could welcome his friends. 

That his life had been rather a tragic one 
was the opinion of these friends rather than 
himself. His past he had put resolutely behind 
him, and a retrospect of it was something he 
rarely indulged in. But now that he was back 
in New York, back in its pitiless, restless, 
splendid life, he was forced to face his past in 
order to form his future, and the sharpest sen- 
sation he had had for years was the conviction 
that a new and strange significance had come 
suddenly into it. That it was no dead yester- 
day which was behind him, he realized as he 
had never thought to do since time had par- 
tially healed the hideous mistake of his youth, 
and the realization came from a source as un- 
expected as it was positive. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


129 


When he had started back to his own coun- 
try it was with a rather vague purpose of taking 
up his old life and doing the best he could with 
it. But no definite line of work had suggested 
itself, and not until a remark of Virginia’s, one 
day, had started a discussion concerning some 
recent political movement did he decide to look 
more fully into certain conditions of his own 
city, and to-night as he sat in his office he was 
wondering what she would think of the plunge 
he had made into municipal matters. 

The shrill cry of a newsboy came up from 
the street below, and leaving his chair Living- 
ston went over to the window and looked out. 
The street was bordered on either side by great, 
towering buildings, which threw grotesque 
shadows on the circle of electric lights at the 
corners, and the people strolling, rushing, rid- 
ing by made it a picture too full of fascination 
to be easily shut from view. For some time he 
stood there looking down on the shifting 
stream of humanity which hurried by only to 
be replaced by recruits from the same exhaust- 
less store, then came back to a table in the 
centre of the room and opened a paper lying 
upon it. 

He smiled slightly at the picture on its front 
page, a picture of himself, and he wondered for 
a moment if he really was like the thing it rep- 
resented. It was not a flattering thing to be 
like, but the picture was soon forgotten in the 
article which he began to read, and before he 


130 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


had finished his face was an indignant frown. 
He read the article through, then tossed the 
paper aside and lighted a cigar. Only a short 
while back in New York, and already before 
the public in a way peculiarly objectionable to 
himself. He puffed silently for a while with 
his head upon the back of his chair and his 
hands in his pockets, and as the frown grad- 
ually cleared away a grim smile replaced it, 
and resolution strong and determined fixed it- 
self upon his face. It was not a handsome 
face, but it was one men trusted and women 
believed in, and the purpose in it to-night spoke 
well for the cause he had undertaken to cham- 
pion. 

His years of absence in foreign lands had 
made him a stranger in his own, consequently, 
on his return to New York, he had taken a 
survey of the entire city in company with his 
Irish man-servant, who knew each core of its 
separate centres; and the result of his survey 
had been a curious mixture of conflicting emo- 
tions. 

Not a district or street had been left unex- 
plored. He was one of its citizens again and 
it was his business to know his city, its good 
and its bad parts ; its method of government, 
its political organizations, its boards and com- 
missions, and all else that concerned it, and 
when after some weeks he had been over most 
of the ground superficially, and over some care- 
fully, he was sick at heart at many things he 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 131 

saw, indignant at others, and proud again of 
others still. But the thing he was most asham- 
ed of was not the crime and corruption of a 
city so big and powerful as his own; not the 
poverty and pollution, the degradation and 
despair of that large part of it which huddles 
together in obscure holes and corners and fights 
savagely with death and disease ; not the politi- 
cal machinery which runs under the guidance 
of human hucksters who give and take, and 
buy and sell, the control of the city’s govern- 
ment for the largest personal consideration; 
not the hopelessness of this side of its life 
stirred him most deeply — but the fatal apathy, 
the scornful indifference, the careless uncon- 
cern of the other who let it alone, and shrugged 
its shoulders and went on its way, and ate and 
drank and was merry, and heeded not the sin 
and suffering it did not care to see. 

Perhaps it was because it was rather new to 
him that it stirred him so deeply. He had be- 
gun his investigations from a desire for infor- 
mation rather than personal concern, but day 
by day he found himself borne on by an ever- 
widening flood of human interest; and as he 
penetrated more and more into the heart of it 
all and looked into results, which as usual were 
only the sequence of causes, he felt a continu- 
ally developing spirit of intolerance toward 
those who sat in cushioned chairs and deplored 
the sin and misery of the world and lifted not 
their fingers to make it less. 


i3 2 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


His experiences in life had been varied, and 
much of his knowledge of men and morals had 
been gained at first hand, and he had rather 
thought he was prepared for most phases of 
character and most forms of weakness and 
wickedness ; but under his new teacher he soon 
found he was but a novice in the study of 
human depravity and duplicity — in which 
science this same teacher, Michael O’Brien, was 
an expert and a scholar. 

Michael had been in Livingston’s employ for 
some time before the latter left New York, and 
during his absence he had been left in charge 
of certain matters which paid him well and 
took little of his time, consequently the natural 
bent of his race for politics had been strongly 
developed, and Michael was something of a 
leader in his district ; and it was a grievance of 
his that brought Livingston face to face with 
a condition of affairs about which he had read, 
but concerning which he was, personally, en- 
tirely ignorant. 

For several years past some effort had been 
made to have a certain block of houses in 
Mike’s district condemned l?y the city in order 
that they might be removed and a play-ground 
provided for the children of that neighborhood. 
Mike’s whole heart and soul were interested in 
this matter, and when, after much work and 
political manipulation, there seemed a fair 
chance of its being finally consummated, the 
whole thing fell through by a piece of traitor- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


133 


ship on the part of some who had hitherto been 
its strongest supporters. 

“It was that damned son of sin Billy McCoy 
what did the dirty work, sir/’ Mike said to 
Livingston a few days after it happened. “I 
knowed he was a snivelling sneak, but I didn’t 
know he was on to the agents of the property 
like he was. You see, sir, the folks, or the 
estate what owns that block, don’t want it 
pulled down. They knows it pays well, and 
taxes is low in that part of the city, and the 
man what runs it for ’em has sent down here 
time and agin to talk me out of it, and he wa’n’t 
stingy neither. He promised to make it all 
right to me if I would let it drop, and jes’ to 
shut him up I made out like I would. But I 
didn’t touch his money, sir, not a dollar. I 
told him we’d fix about that later. That’s 
where I was a durned fool, sir. He was sus- 
picious of me because I didn’t take the money 
at once and that’s how he bought out Billy Mc- 
Coy. Damn ’em, sir! They all ought to be 
strung up for their dirty work in keepin’ the 
air and sunshine from the babies what gasps 
their life out for want of it! ‘Scusin’ of thte 
word, it does me good to be sayin’ ‘damn the 
whole crowd of ’em !’ ” and Mike wiped the 
perspiration off his face despairingly. 

That was how Livingston got into it; first 
through sympathy for Mike’s bitter disappoint- 
ment, and afterwards from genuine interest in 
the matter itself. 


134 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Mike’s knowledge of, and experience in, 
affairs political were worth more than many 
columns of theory on the subject, and Livings- 
ton, realizing his practical ignorance of the 
same, had gone very quietly to work in the 
primary grades in Mike’s district, wherein was 
taught by objective method, “Municipal Mat- 
ters and How They Are Run.” And if he 
learned some things that made him grow white 
in the face and draw his eyebrows together 
sharply, he nevertheless persisted in the entire 
course of study, knowing full well, however, 
that experience alone would make him profi- 
cient in the knowledge he was beginning to 
acquire. 

He made the acquaintance of many of Mike’s 
friends and gained from them much useful in- 
formation concerning ways and means; but at 
the same time he let them know that he was in- 
terested in the play-ground matter, and that as 
soon as he had gotten sufficient material to- 
gether he was going to let the public know why 
the children had been denied it and how it had 
been accomplished. In his heart, Mike had 
trembled at Livingston’s avowal of what he in- 
tended to do, as well as his blind assumption 
that to act square would work in that district; 
but he soon saw that his very audacity had 
caught the neighborhood, and the mistrust and 
opposition his coming amongst them had first 
caused was giving way gradually to the recog- 
nition that the man was a leader, and a man 
who was good for a fight. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


135 


Brydon had rather laughed at Livingston’s 
plunge into so notorious a district as the one 
Mike hailed from, nevertheless he was glad 
that the work interested him, and he had offer- 
ed to take part in the row when it had reached 
an exciting point. 

“Preliminary work isn’t in my line,” he had 
said jokingly one day. “But when the thing 
gets hot, let me know and I’ll stand by you, old 
boy. To keep those brats and babies from 
their share of fresh air and sunshine is a beastly 
shame, and when you need me, let me know” ; 
and Brydon, like thousands of others, had gone 
off, realizing that work ought to be done, but 
realizing also his unreadiness and unwilling- 
ness to do it. 

For a while it had been kept out of the 
papers, and then one of them made a scoop, 
and in flaming headlines announced “One of 
the Classes at Work for the Masses,” and there 
had followed a long, distorted, sensational 
article on Livingston’s work in Mike’s dis- 
trict — who he was, what he was, and finally 
attributing all sorts of motives as to why he 
was. 

It was this article that made Livingston 
wrinkle his brows together angrily and then 
relax them with a short laugh. “It is what 
every man has to expect in this glorious coun- 
try of ours,” he said when he had finished it. 
“Freedom we have in abundance, but privacy — 
none.” He leaned back in his chair and lighted 


136 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


a fresh cigar. He did not mind the distortions 
of the article except as they related to his pri- 
vate life, but these he did resent, and as he 
thought of its being read at Spinstervilla his 
face flamed and then paled into sudden white- 
ness. 

Livingston was no fool. He knew well that 
his name and money caused him to be a desir- 
able matrimonial possibility, and he put to 
their credit the many obnoxious little efforts 
that were being constantly made to draw him 
back into a circle from which he had been long 
absent; and he also well understood that his 
marriage and divorce would be considered by 
that same circle but a tiresome mistake that was 
not to be taken seriously. 

It was not what that circle thought that in- 
terested him, however ; but what another, and a 
very different one, would think when they 
should read these things so painful to him, and 
at the thought his heart grew full of bitterness. 

He got up after a while and went over to his 
desk and took from it a paper, and unfolded it 
carefully. His brow knitted, and he ran his 
hand through his hair again and again as he 
read, but he kept on until the last word was 
finished, then re-read several parts of it ; and as 
he read, the vital energy of the man was as 
recognizable as the color of his eyes or the 
shape of his face. Tall and well built, with 
muscles strong and hard, the breath of the for- 
est, the unrestraint of the life of nature and 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


I 37 


with dealing with its forces radiated from him, 
and the hate of injustice shone in his deepset 
eyes, and the scorn of weakness betrayed itself 
in the lines of his well shaped mouth. 

He put the paper down carefully and then 
began to write rapidly. The disturbed look on 
his face increased as he wrote, and after a 
moment he hesitated and balanced his pen in 
his fingers as if undecided what to do. His 
investigations had by no means been a pleasant 
undertaking during the past few weeks. He 
had found out things that put a bad taste in 
his mouth; but the thing that perplexed him 
most was his discovery that the block of houses 
which would have to come down for the play- 
ground to be made in Mike’s district belonged 
to an estate which was in the hands of Brydon’s 
partner, Mr. Oliver Parker. 

Livingston had never liked Parker. His 
suavity of manner and thin underlip had 
always grated on him, and a subtle something 
which, though indefinable, had always been 
strong, had long ago convinced him that Par- 
ker was a rascal. Up to the present time, how- 
ever, he had nothing but prejudice, or intuition, 
to base his conviction upon, and he had never 
mentioned it to Brydon for the reason that he 
hated an insinuation even more than a lie, and 
until he could give proof of his fear he did not 
want to lessen the latter’s confidence in his 
partner. 

With a feeling of relief, Livingston realized 
that not one dollar of Brydon’s money was in 


138 WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 

Parker’s hands. By a strange provision of his 
father’s will, Bry don’s share of the estate had 
been left in trust until he should reach the age 
of thirty-five years, but his mother’s share had 
been left in fee-simple, and to-day Livingston 
had learned that she was the owner of the block 
of houses which Parker’s agent had so actively 
opposed being torn down. There was some- 
thing behind all this opposition, and for several 
weeks past Livingston had been working quiet- 
ly among certain court records and investiga- 
ting little rumors which had reached him from 
unexpected quarters, with the result that he felt 
it was necessary for Brydon, who was out of 
town, to return at once, and to-night he was 
writing him to that effect. 


CHAPTER XIII 


Livingston finished his letter and rang for 
Mike to mail it, then left his desk and went over 
to the window and again looked down upon the 
street. After a few minutes he drew up a 
chair and threw himself back in it, and yielded 
to thoughts that for days and weeks past he 
had been resolutely struggling to keep from 
definiteness of form or expression. The strug- 
gle was useless, however. Even from the day 
he had first seen her he had been conscious of 
the new meaning that had come into life for 
him, and very steadily had that meaning 
strengthened and developed during each day 
that had passed, and he knew now that restraint 
was no longer possible. 

It was for her sake only that he had so con- 
trolled his every word and act and almost 
thought; for her sake he had tried to hide his 
recognition of her lest he startle her by an 
avowal for which she was unprepared, and for 
which she could not give him the answer he 
must have — but he was not equal to the strain, 
he could no longer wait. Uncertainty was un- 
endurable, and to-night uncertainty must end. 

It had been such a new life — that into which 


140 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


he had dropped so unexpectedly when he had 
come back to his old home; and the richness 
and sweetness and freshness of it all was as 
the rain of heaven upon a sun-scorched earth, 
and the days that had passed had been the hap- 
piest and yet the most unhappy of his life. 
They had been very beautiful days. All nature 
had combined to make them radiant with 
warmth and sunshine and the melody of birds, 
and in his heart new melodies had been making 
also; melodies that were maddeningly uncer- 
tain and perilously sweet, and only to Brydon 
had he mentioned the nature of their song. 

Abruptly, one night, he had told Brydon of 
his love for his cousin, and the look on his face 
had for a moment whitened his own to his lips. 
Brydon recovered himself quickly, however, 
and Livingston’s hand had been wrung until it 
hurt. 

“Good luck to you, old boy,” he had said 
cheerily, but the ring in his voice was not the 
one Livingston had hoped to hear, and he knew 
that while Brydon would stand by him loyally 
to the end, the thought of his marriage to Vir- 
ginia had come in the nature of a shock for 
which he was little prepared. 

“I’m a fool not to have seen it,” Brydon had 
said slowly. “But I never thought you would 
care to marry, and I’m such a selfish dog that 
I hoped Virginia wouldn’t want to for some 
time yet. I suppose a fellow always feels like 
that about his younger sister, and she’s been 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


I 4 I 

like mine for years, you know. I would rather 
put her in your care, however, than in any 
man’s living — you believe that, John?” and 
Brydon had given him a look that bared his 
heart. “And yet I almost wish to God that 
you and she had never met, for it is going to 
mean trouble for you both. Were it any one 
but her the past would make little difference,” 
and Brydon’s voice was suddenly grave and 
low ; “but it is not easy to uproot the principles 
and prejudices of inheritance and cultivation, 
and you will have to be very patient if in the 
end you would win her. God grant it may all 
come right, however,” and Brydon had wrung 
his hand again and abruptly left the room. 

All this and more Livingston thought over 
as he sat by his window and smoked in the 
darkness, and a hesitancy that was most un- 
usual seemed to paralyze his power of decision. 
That Joyce guessed his secret, that Portia fear- 
ed it, and Elizabeth knew it, he was quite sure, 
and only Virginia — Virginia, who had sprung 
into his heart and twisted its every fibre around 
her until the strain was almost breaking it — 
only Virginia was unheeding. 

That Portia would not readily consent to his 
marriage to her sister even if Virginia loved 
him, he knew full well ; but it was not Portia’s 
opposition he feared. Portia was direct, deter- 
mined, tangible and he could face her objec- 
tions and fight them, but it was Virginia her- 
self that he most dreaded. Virginia, whose 


142 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


standards of right and wrong were based upon 
a spiritual insight that few could understand; 
whose clear vision had never been clouded by 
subterfuge, or inconsistency, or expediency; 
and he feared the look that would come into 
her eyes when she should come face to face 
with the ways of a world that were so com- 
monplace to him, so new and strange to her. 
For a week past he had purposely stayed away 
from her lest his heart should too suddenly be- 
tray itself, but to-night the farce of it all came 
over him, and as he looked at his watch he hur- 
riedly left the room. 

When he reached Spinstervilla, Elizabeth 
was in her hammock and Portia in her favorite 
low chair on the veranda, and Virginia on the 
upper step, and as he sat down by her he in- 
quired for Joyce and threw his hat on a chair 
some distance off. 

For a while they talked together of the un- 
usual heat, of Brydon’s return, of Laurie’s last 
letter, and the slight accident to Irving, and 
then Elizabeth suddenly remembering she had 
an important letter to write, went in. Very 
soon she was back, however, to say Joyce’s 
headache was no better and would Portia 
please tell her what to do for her, and Portia, 
getting up hurriedly, left Virginia and Livings- 
ton alone on the porch. 

The latter leaned back against the railing 
and looked at her gravely. She was pulling a 
rose to pieces, leaf by leaf, and as the petals fell 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


143 


upon the steps below she watched the pile grow 
bigger and whiter, and sighed unconsciously. 

“And why the sigh, may I ask,” and Livings- 
ton picked up a petal and stripped it into shreds. 

“It is so like life,” and she pointed to the 
little heap the breeze was scattering. 

“As a flower of the field it flourisheth and 
then passeth away. Is that it? A rose, how- 
ever, is hardly the proper flower. You should 
have had a daisy.” 

“Roses and daisies go the same strange 
way,” she said, smiling slightly. “It matters 
not which they happen to be when both are 
dead. I suppose the only thing that really 
matters is whether the roses smelt sweet, and 
the daisies did their best.” 

She brushed the few remaining leaves from 
her lap and clasped her hands together loosely, 
but her face was turned from him and he could 
not see its sudden whiteness. He did not 
answer her, but his penetrating eyes were 
searching her relentlessly, and as the clock in 
the hall struck the hour she started nervously. 

“It has such a creepy sound,” she said with 
a queer little laugh, “and always suggests gar- 
rets and ghosts and things. I almost wish 
Joyce had never given it to Portia.” 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” 

She stirred uneasily. 

“I'm not quite sure I don’t. I told you I 
was very old-fashioned.” 

He leaned forward. 


I 44 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“Are you too old-fashioned to marry a man 
that is divorced ?” 

Had he struck her she could hardly have 
shrunk back farther. 

“Don’t — oh, don’t!” she said as if choking, 
and she put out her hand to keep back further 
words. “We were so happy — and now — we 
have waked up!” 

Livingston came over and stood in front of 
her. 

“Come with me down to your old wishing 
tree,” he said gently; “I have much to tell you, 
much that you must hear before I can ask you 
to be my wife, and I cannot wait longer to ask 
you.” 

She hesitated a moment, then, as he took her 
hands in his, she turned and went with him to 
her best-loved tree, and late into the night they 
sat and talked. 

The story of his life she already knew, but 
almost brutally he laid bare that part of it 
which was most bitter for him to touch upon, 
and the blame of his marriage he took merci- 
lessly upon himself. 

“And your — your wife,” and Virginia’s 
voice had a queer sound in it, “did she wish 
you to leave her as you did?” 

Livingston laughed harshly. 

“I imagine she enjoyed my absence rather 
more than otherwise, though she affected some 
indignation at it. At one time she tried to 
impress me with the fancy that she cared for 
me, but I was never good at imagining the ex- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


I 45 


istence of a non-existent. It was not in her 
power to give love, and I had no right to de- 
mand what I did not give in return.” 

“But at first — you surely loved her at first ?” 
and Virginia held her hands rigidly together. 

Livingston shook his head. 

“No, I haven’t even that to my credit. I 
admired her, for at that time she was the most 
beautiful woman I had ever seen, the most per- 
fect specimen of flesh and blood; but she was 
all body; there was no soul within her.” 

Virginia shook her head dissentingly. 

“Perhaps I am mistaken, but I have always 
believed there was no woman so weak or so 
wicked but had a soul somewhere. Perhaps 
you did not try to find if she had one.” 

“Perhaps I didn’t,” and Livingston’s voice 
was full of bitterness. “Soul microbes, how- 
ever, are not in my line, and you do not know 
the woman about whom you are speaking. I 
am very willing to take upon myself the blame 
of the marriage, but I should have been even 
more guilty in the sight of God than I already 
am, had I continued to live with the wife who 
had married me solely for self-interest, and 
who was becoming daily more and more intol- 
erable to me.” 

“Did she get the divorce, or you ?” 

Virginia’s voice sounded far away, and her 
hands locked and unlocked each other nerv- 
ously. 

“She did,” and Livingston began to walk 
restlessly up and down in front of her. “When 


146 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


I left her, it was not from sudden impulse. We 
had had several talks on the subject, talks 
which are ugly to remember, and then came a 
scene which decided the matter. She took her 
pleasures recklessly, and one day, after losing 
heavily at cards the night before, she came to 
me for the money to pay the debt, and I refused 
it. Her income from the dower which had 
been given her on her marriage was fully suf- 
ficient for any folly she cared to indulge in, and 
she knew well I was opposed, intensely opposed, 
to her gambling, and still she persisted in it, 
believing I would meet all obligations. For a 
while I had done so, but when I finally refused 
to continue it there was a violent, hideous 
scene, and I left her, and have never seen her 
since.” 

“And did you never hear from her?” 

The question was asked almost in a whisper, 
for Virginia could see that Livingston was 
quivering under the opening of this old wound, 
and every word concerning it was cutting into 
the quick, but still there were some things she 
must know. 

“Yes, I heard from her twice. The first let- 
ter was a partial apology and a partial promise, 
the second was one of bitter denunciation and 
- defiance. I answered neither. That I was to 
pay the full penalty of my reckless disregard 
of the one thing that makes marriage lawful, I 
knew full well when I realized the mistake of 
it all ; and when I left Mrs. Livingston in Paris 
it was with no expectation of getting a divorce. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


1 47 


I accepted the fact that love and home and hap- 
piness were to play no part in my life, and I 
deserved the barrenness of the future for my 
folly in the past; and had she not wished it 
otherwise, I would have continued to be her 
husband in the eyes of the law, but I would 
have spent my life where I could breathe free, 
and breathe something that was not shrivelling 
and stifling to the heart of a man.” 

“And she has never married again?” 

“I have never heard of it. Her mother has 
since died, and she spends much of her time 
traveling, I understand. Part of each year 
she spends in Paris, where her gowns are made, 
I believe; that seems to be the one thing on 
earth that really absorbs her.” 

Virginia unclasped her hands. 

“One would never imagine she was a woman 
of that sort — she is so beautiful. She is so 
beautiful that it is hard to believe she is so en- 
tirely hopeless as you and Brydon think her.” 

Livingston stopped his walk. 

“Do you know her ?” he asked in amazement. 
“Have you ever seen her ?” 

Virginia shook her head. 

“I have never seen her, but I have seen her 
picture several times. About a year ago I saw 
a picture of her in an English magazine, and 
though I knew nothing about her, I cut it out 
and put it away because it was so beautiful.” 

She hesitated a moment as if there was some- 
thing else she would say, then with a deep 


148 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


breath got up slowly and leaned slightly against 
the tree. She tried to speak, but the words 
died away in a half sob, and she looked at Liv- 
ingston appealingly. 

“Why did she come into my life, and you, 
and love that I cannot have ?” she cried broken- 
ly. And after a silence that Livingston dared not 
break, continued : “You must go away.” She 
put out her hands as if to keep him from inter- 
rupting her. “You must go away. You must 
go away — because — I love you.” 

By a mighty effort Livingston controlled 
himself. 

“And if you love me, why must I go away?” 

She turned to him and held out her hands. 
They shook slightly, but her voice no longer 
trembled. 

“Love will not come to me but once. It 
will be yours always, always — but I cannot 
marry you.” She shivered as if cold, though 
her eyes did not waver. “I cannot marry you — 
you are the husband of another woman. You 
must go away. You must go away.” 

She swayed slightly and he caught her in his 
arms, and the love in him, which had been 
starving for years, leaped into uncontrol and 
he almost crushed her in the fierceness of his 
joy. 

“Go away!” he repeated. “Go away! I 
will not go away! I will stay here until you 
come to me or until death takes me from you. 
You cannot make me go away!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


Portia was waiting as Virginia came up the 
steps, and when she saw the latter’s face with 
its strange new look upon it, the look almost of 
her dream, she took her in her arms and kissed 
her silently again and again. Neither spoke, 
but each knew that the other understood. 

So many times in life words are unwise. 
To-night was one of them, and though a fierce 
fear was burning in Portia’s heart, she knew 
it was not the time to show it. She would 
trust the little sister yet longer, and in silence 
they separated for the night. 

Each went to her room, and as Portia closed 
her door and locked it, her arms involuntarily 
outstretched themselves. 

“My mother, my mother!” she cried, and 
there was a ring of agony in her voice; “have 
I failed to teach your child aright? As you 
would have done, have I done?” 

She dropped upon her knees by the bed and 
buried her face in her arms, and great, tearless 
sobs shook her frame convulsively. Relaxed, 
unstrung, this quiet, reserved and self-con- 
trolled' woman, whom the world, the world 
that did not know her, thought cold and proud, 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


150 

crouched through the long hours of the night ; 
crouched and prayed and suffered as none but 
the mother-heart of a woman can suffer, even 
though the experience of motherhood be not 
hers. 

With a passionate love that was almost idol- 
atry, she had lavished upon Virginia the out- 
giving of a heart that had had thrown back 
upon itself that which was meant for home and 
husband and children of her own bearing, and 
with all the strength of her soul she had tried 
to be to her as mother and friend, and teacher 
and guide. She had tried to lead her into 
paths of high thinking and right living, and to 
instill in her those principles which make for 
the betterment and the uplift of humanity, and 
upon which rests the foundation of the home, 
the church, and the nation; and now that she 
was face to face with one of the problems which 
threaten the very base of these things, she 
shrank back in terror from the struggle that 
awaited her. 

With Portia there was but one standard, and 
the preservation of that standard was a matter 
of supremest importance. That the home 
should be sacredly guarded, the church rever- 
enced, and the honor of the nation preserved 
was the creed of her faith concerning these in- 
stitutions ; and she drew back in strong dissent 
from the theories of those modern apostles who 
so lightly rattled the foundation stones upon 
which the fathers had builded, and which to 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 151 

her, at least, were sufficiently sure and solid and 
safe to last through all eternity. 

For her there could be no compromise with 
purity, or faith, or integrity. For her there 
shone ever the clear white light of conviction, 
and she followed it bravely; and if at times it 
caused her pain, she accepted the pain as the 
price she must pay for her faith — and hid it in 
her heart. 

Joyce called her the Mother Superior, and in 
one sense the name suited her well. In the 
world but not of it, she did her duty daily, and 
kept away from the madding crowd which 
rushed and crushed and knocked each other 
down, and then helped them up again, and the 
bloom of her old illusions had never yet been 
entirely brushed away. 

She had been transplanted from a sheltered 
home where old-fashioned ideals had been born 
into her soul from the milk of her mother, and 
in the new soil she had never taken root. And 
that she had passed the period of life in which 
new points of view are easily acquired, she 
realized with a strange feeling of out-of-joint- 
ness with her time, and with a consciousness 
that by the world at large she would be classed 
as provincial, and narrow, and entirely out of 
date. To her each woman was a priestess who 
was to keep eternally alight the fire of love and 
purity and truth, and nothing that life could 
give was great enough for the sacrifice of those 
things whose altar should be sacredly guarded 
from unholy offerings. 


152 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


And yet — and yet — she buried her head still 
deeper in her arms, and her fingers dug into 
her hands until they cut the tender flesh. With 
herself she could be stern and unyielding; but 
she was afraid, pitifully afraid, that she would 
be weak where Virginia’s happiness was con- 
cerned. Would she have to tread her wine- 
press alone ? Could she not go with her 
through the bruising places? Why had love 
come to each of them as a tragedy, instead as 
to other women — a beautiful guest? 

Virginia would love this man. She already 
loved him perhaps. To-night he had told her 
of his love, as she had known that he would do 
sooner or later. She had seen from the first 
the instantaneous gravitation of each to the 
other, and she had shrunk from this night as 
a woman shrinks from the day of her travail. 

Virginia must not marry this man. In the 
eyes of God, in the eyes of all who believe in 
the sacredness of marriage, he was the husband 
of another woman. The law had disannulled 
this relationship, and he was a free man in the 
eyes of the law, but deeper than law, and 
stronger and more powerful, were the vows 
that had been broken ; and if not to each other, 
at least to the institution into which they had 
entered, they were still bound by the law that is 
written in the heart and the conscience of man. 

The night grew chill, and still she knelt and 
suffered as if this cup had been hers to drink. 
Better far could she have drained it had it been 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


153 


hers alone. She was used to sorrow and pain, 
and disappointment and sacrifice. They were 
old comrades with whom she had often walked 
hand in hand, and she knew them well, and 
she was not now afraid of a lonely way. But 
Virginia! Virginia was meant for sunshine 
and gladness and the fragrance of flowers, and 
not to fight the problems of life, nor to face its 
issues; and yet in the mockery of fate this 
thing had come upon her. 

She lifted her head at last and her eyes fell 
upon the face of the Sistine Madonna — that 
mother-face of all humanity — and tears came 
suddenly as a relief to the tense strain of the 
night. 

“O Mary, mother of Christ !” she whispered, 
“if I had been taught to pray to you, I should 
pray to you to-night. Only a woman can un- 
derstand — only a woman can know how weak 
is the heart of another woman where love is 
deep !” 

She held out her hands yearningly to the 
picture, then dropped them quickly, and again 
buried her face in her arms. She tried to pray, 
but she could not. She was worn and spent, and 
over and over in her ears sounded the words, 
now clearly, now confusedly, now clearly again, 
“whosoever shall put away his wife and marry 
another, committeth adultery against her/’ and 
as the words burnt into her brain she shrank 
back from their meaning as flesh shrivels under 
the touch of fire. 


CHAPTER XV 


When Virginia went to her room she, too, 
shut her door and locked it, something she had 
never done before in her life. She walked over 
to the windows and opened wide their shutters, 
then sat down by one of them and let the wind 
blow upon her face; and with eyes that saw 
not, looked out into the darkness of the night. 

At first she was not conscious of any acute 
sensation. All emotion, all responsibility, all 
decision was suspended, and like one curiously 
numb, she seemed to be reviewing impersonally 
a strange something that had happened, a some- 
thing that was beautiful and terrible, and that 
was to change sharply and suddenly the peace- 
ful current of her life. 

She did not pretend to be surprised at what 
Livingston had told her. In an intangible, 
elusive, delicious sort of way the first stirrings 
of love which had filled her heart during these 
days that were past had been vaguely under- 
stood, and she had known before to-night that 
he loved her, but not until to-night had she 
faced the truth or let herself dream of what it 
was going to mean. 

She had told him that she loved him. Great 
God — how she loved him! She unfastened 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


*55 


her dress at the throat and threw the ribbon on 
the floor, and leaned still farther out of the 
window that she might breathe better. It had 
not occurred to her to keep back the confession 
of her love ; she was too transparent to attempt 
subterfuge or to deny what existed, and how 
there could be hesitation or doubt in a matter 
of this kind she did not at all understand. One 
must either love or not love, and there was no 
uncertainty in her heart as to its presence there. 

She leaned her head against the sash of the 
window and her eyes grew clear and dry. It 
had been too beautiful to last, those dear deli- 
cious days which to-night had made seem such 
a long, long time ago, and she had known that 
it must end, that subtle electric something 
which points to a new heaven and a new earth ; 
but she had thrilled to its every whisper and 
had refused to give it a name or a meaning, 
and the facing of it to-night had been a sharp 
and sudden shock. 

He had made no sign, had said no word, but 
she had known, and she had foolishly dreamed 
that awakening need not come. Could she 
have prevented his loving her ? 

For the first time she smiled queerly, and in 
the darkness shook her head. He was not a 
man who dealt in preventives. The thought 
chilled her with a sudden fear. Would he con- 
quer her in the end; so dominate her that she 
would yield her will to his, would marry him 
after all ? Why had he loved her ? Why not 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


156 

some one else who did not think about such 
things as she and Portia did ? She and Portia 
were so old-fashioned, so out of date, with 
their queer ideas about old standards of right 
and wrong; and principles that must never be 
sacrificed; and ideals that must ever be sus- 
tained. They were not broad and liberal and 
advanced as it was the custom of the day to be ; 
they believed in the finality of moral law, and 
their opinion on the subject of marriage would 
be laughed at by some, and pitied by others, 
and agreed with by but few. 

Other women married divorced men, and 
men married divorced women, and the world 
went carelessly on. Did such things matter? 
Did anything matter save to be happy while 
one might? Life was so short, so short. Why 
should she and happiness part company so early 
on the way? 

And Livingston — had she the right to keep 
happiness from him? Her heart contracted 
sharply. He had so much that men envied 
and women wanted, and yet all that he most 
cared for had long been denied him. 

The thought seemed to stifle her, and she got 
up as if to breathe better, then turning from 
the window walked over to her desk, unlocked 
a small drawer and took from it a picture. She 
turned on the light and looked at it long and 
earnestly, then with a half shudder put it back 
and cut off the light. 

Was fate a wizard who mixed up people's 
lives and tossed human hearts about like loose 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


157 


leaves? Why had this woman come into her 
quiet life? Why had she kept through all 
these months her picture hidden in her desk? 
When Brydon had told them the story of Liv- 
ingston’s marriage and mentioned the name of 
his wife, she remembered with an indefinable 
little thrill that her picture was in her posses- 
sion. Since then she had never looked at it, 
and yet she could not make up her mind to 
destroy it. Should she do so to-night? Had 
she a right to keep it? 

In the darkness the pictured face seemed to 
stand out in clear relief, and with a feeling of 
almost terror she threw herself face downwards 
on the bed as if to hide it from her sight. She 
covered her eyes with her hands, but her ears 
were full of a dull monotone that would not be 
hushed, and after a while she recognized it as 
a fragment of the wedding ceremony. Over 
and over again it repeated itself : “Is not by 
any — to be taken — in hand — unadvisedly, — 
but reverently — discreetly — and in the fear of 
God.” 

She covered her ears with her hands and 
buried her face still deeper in the pillow, but 
like a monotonous dirge the words continued, 
and then suddenly they changed to a more 
solemn tone : 

“I require — and charge you both, — as ye will 
answer — at the dreadful — day of judgment, — 
when the secrets — of all hearts — shall be dis- 
closed, — that if either — of you do know — any 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


158 

impediment — why ye may not be — lawfully — 
joined together — in matrimony, — ye do now 
confess it; — for be ye — well assured, — that so 
many — as are coupled together — otherwise 
than as God’s word — doth allow, — are not 
joined together by God, — neither is their matri- 
mony — lawful.” 

She shuddered as the words one by one came 
into meaning, and bit her teeth into her lips to 
keep back the cry of her heart. 

Could the church marry her with that for a 
part of its service ? Why did the church have 
a service that it mocked by ignoring? Could 
she be a law unto herself? She wasn’t a new 
woman who laughed at old laws and lived in 
defiance of them. She was just a woman who 
craved love and gave it richly in return; but 
love must be pure and holy and white, or else it 
was not love — it was something else. 

Why had Margaret Grey not married again ? 
Could she have any scruples on the subject? 

Virginia shook her head. Margaret Grey 
did not belong to the class whose consciences 
were most acute. Only primitive people were 
still sensitive to the social evolutions of ad- 
vanced civilization, and Elizabeth said fashion- 
able people interpreted laws to suit themselves, 
not themselves to suit laws. 

Was Elizabeth right? Were fashionable 
people different from other people, or only a 
little more conspicuous ? They had more 
pleasure — that is, more means of pleasure — 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


J S9 


than many others, but did they have less trouble 
or pain, or death or disgrace, or sickness or 
sorrow ? 

The night seemed interminable. Through 
the window Virginia watched its darkness mys- 
teriously passing into the pallor that foretells 
the coming of another day; the pallor that 
seems to emanate from nowhere and to diffuse 
itself everywhere before it definitely declares 
itself and is dissipated by the breaking through 
of a stronger light; and as she watched it she 
prayed dumbly. If only light would come to 
her. Portia could not lead her to it or bring it 
to her ; nothing human could. It must come as 
did the dawn, from that mystical fountain- 
head in whose holding is all life and all law, be 
it natural, or spiritual, or moral; and at the 
thought she shivered with cold, and her hand 
touching her dress, found it damp and clinging. 

During the night the air had grown chill, 
and for hours the wind had been blowing on 
her. She got up and closed the window and 
noticed that it was raining, then went over to 
the door and unlocked it softly. Perhaps if 
she could sleep she might wake and believe the 
night had been a hideous dream. She took off 
her dress and put on her gown, and again threw 
herself upon the bed, and pressed her hands 
tightly over her throbbing eyes. 

If only she could sleep! Things looked so 
hopeless, so impossible in the still hours of the 
night when all the world is sleeping and you 


i6o 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


alone awake ; but in the sunlight cowardice be- 
comes courage, and despair, hope, and difficul- 
ties melt away ; perhaps to-morrow it would be 
so with her. Would to-morrow ever come? 
If only she could sleep — sleep — sleep ! 

The rain began to beat more heavily on the 
roof. It was chanting a strange melody. She 
lifted her head to listen, then dropped it again 
and pressed her hands over her ears to shut out 
the sound. Like a weird cadence the words 
rose and fell to the accompaniment of the wind : 
“Wilt thou love her, — comfort her, — honor and 
keep her, — in sickness and in health ; — and for- 
saking all others, — keep thee only — unto her — 
so long — as ye both — shall live ?” 

She dug her face into her pillow and her 
breath came unsteadily, and as if she were 
choking. Surely she was exaggerating the 
sacredness of these words. They were not 
meant to be taken literally unless things went 
happily. To-morrow they would sound differ- 
ently. It had come so suddenly upon her to- 
night that her power to think properly was 
dulled. She was morbid perhaps; to-morrow 
she would see it in another light. 

Could she give him up? Great God! She 
threw back her head suddenly as if suffocating. 
No — she could not give him up ! All the love 
of her life had been saved for him, and she had 
known him from the first. Joyce could not 
love Brydon as she loved, or she would not hes- 
itate were all the world in the way. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE l6l 

The memory of his passionate kisses sent the 
hot blood quiveringly over her body, and for a 
moment a great joy filled her heart. 

He loved her with a love surpassing even 
her own; for hers, as yet, was but the partial 
surrender of the woman who holds in reserve 
its full completeness until she be entirely his — 
but the vital currents of his soul had been 
stirred, and she had stirred them. 

Whatever else life denied her, it would ever 
have a memory that was worth suffering for. 
The experience of a deep love given and return- 
ed would always be hers, and she thanked God 
that she had sounded its depth, even though its 
height be never reached. 

It was so easy for people who did not know 
love, or only knew its placid, passionless accept- 
ance, to tell other people what was right or 
wrong; so easy to preach, so hard to practice 
eternal principles. 

W ould it help her to know what other people 
thought about such things? She shook her 
head. Not even Portia could help her in this. 
She must fight it out for herself ; fight it with 
no one to help. 

If only she could sleep ! 

The wind was rising steadily, and the 
branches of the trees bent and shook and rat- 
tled their leaves angrily. The rain was even 
more relentless, and in great gusts it beat 
against the house and poured itself in little riv- 
ulets from the roof. Suddenly it seemed to 


162 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


stop and the silence was oppressive, then it 
began again. It was singing now, and the 
melody was deep and rich and tender: “I, 
Jonathan, — take thee, Virginia.” No, — not 
Virginia — not Virginia! “I, Jonathan, — take 
thee, Margaret, — to be my wedded wife, — to 
have and to hold, — from this day forward, — 
for better, — for worse ; — for richer, — for 
poorer ; — in sickness and in health, — and hereto 
— I plight thee — my troth.” 

In the darkness she shuddered. “God have 
mercy, have mercy upon me!” she whispered 
wearily. “Have mercy upon me, and incline 
mine heart to keep thy law.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


For several hours after he left Virginia, 
Livingston rode his horse hard and fast, and 
when finally he turned him over to the stable 
boy, who was sleepily waiting, it was only be- 
cause the rain was coming down too heavily to 
stay out longer. He would like to have stayed 
out longer in the night ; stayed out until his 
pulse should beat less rapidly, and his blood run 
less hotly through his heart and brain, but in 
the rain it was folly, and moreover he must 
write to Portia at once. 

Virginia loved him ! Nothing else on earth 
mattered — Virginia loved him ! 

The horse’s hoofs had beat the measure of 
the words in a clear, ringing rhythm ; the night 
winds had chorused it, and his own heart had 
re-echoed it in a passionate tumult of exulta- 
tion — Virginia loved him ! Nothing else mat- 
tered, Virginia loved him ! 

He went into his library and sat down at his 
desk and drew toward him pen and paper, and 
began to write. It had seemed an easy thing 
to do, but after a moment he hesitated and his 
brow knitted frowningly. What should he 
say to Portia? He could not ask her consent 


164 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


to marry Virginia if Virginia would not marry 
him. He tore up the first sheet and began on 
another, and without waiting to read what he 
had written, he sealed the letter and laid it on 
the table to be sent over in the morning. 

The dawn was breaking when he put up his 
pen, and as he threw himself back in his chair 
the strain and exultation of the first part of the 
night gave way to a reaction that chilled him 
with a sudden fear. 

The grayness of the room became oppressive, 
and as he opened a window to let in more light 
and air he saw a young bird on the ground 
below, that had evidently been bruised and 
beaten by the storm of the night. Its poor 
little wings were helpless, and piteously it was 
chirping a feeble cry. The other birds had left 
it, however ; left it to its fate, and as Livingston 
went out and picked it up and warmed its little 
body with his hands, it fluttered faintly for a 
moment before it died. He put it back gently 
and covered it with some leaves and soft earth. 

“Broken things are better dead,” he said 
with a tinge of bitterness; “broken promises, 
broken purposes, broken laws, or broken lives. 
You are lucky, little bird, to have the struggle 
ended so quickly.” 

With an unconscious sigh that was half 
sorrowful, half cynical, he went into the 
library and again lay back in his chair. Sleep 
was impossible, and the memory of an old le- 
gend came into his mind with persistent irrita- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


1^5 

tion. The eternal punishment of the man who, 
parched with thirst, stood always up to his 
throat in water which continually rose almost 
to his lips but never reached them, and to drink 
which he could not stoop or bend his head, 
mocked him with its hopelessness and despair. 
The thought was maddening, for he knew the 
awfulness of thirst as only those can who have 
felt it in deserts where water is not found; but 
a more consuming thirst was upon him to- 
night — the thirst for that which a man has a 
right to ask of life; for that which seemed so 
near him but which might be as unattainable 
as the stars of heaven. 

He would be patient. He was not as toler- 
ant of other people’s points of view as he should 
be ; but, God help him, he would be very patien'c 
with Virginia and win her by his love at last. 

He would not attempt to urge her too 
strongly at first; he would not force her to the 
issue of a decision until she was more ready for 
it, but in the end she should be his wife, for 
she loved him, and love was more powerful 
than law, and most persuasive of all arguments. 

He looked around the room and his face 
flushed at the thought of her presence in it. It 
was a handsome room and full of those things 
which make a house characteristic, but the 
spirit of a woman was not there, and its cheer- 
lessness chilled him as never before. 

She would sit there and he would read to 
her in the winter evenings while the firelight 


1 66 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


played over her gown and deepened the delicate 
color of her face; or over there in the next 
room she would take him out of this present 
world into that mystical one of the spirit by 
the spell of her wonderful song, for hers was 
the voice of an angel, and the heart strings of 
her hearers was the harp upon which she 
played. 

Would life give him this? Or would the 
happiness he craved be as the unreachable 
waters to the famished man? Would he be 
patient? Could he wait patiently until she 
came to him freely? 

He got up and began to walk restlessly up 
and down the room. Was life to mean for 
him, after all, that which he had put so resolute- 
ly behind him ? It could be so beautiful a thing, 
this little while called life — so beautiful or so 
bitter. Which was it going to be for him? 

Faith had been long dormant and hope long 
dead, but love had kindled both into life again, 
and to-night his heart was full of a wordless 
prayer. Which would it be — which would it 
be? 


CHAPTER XVII 


Joyce came in, as usual, a little late for break- 
fast. 

“It was the rain and darkness,” she said, 
nodding good-morning as she took her seat. 
“Or was it my headache? It’s a dreadful 
thing to have to make an excuse every morning 
for being late. Have you said grace, Portia ?” 

The latter nodded. 

“I hope your headache is better, dear ; in fact 
I think you must have turned it over to me,” 
and Portia smiled faintly. 

“I hope I didn’t do anything of the kind,” 
Joyce answered quickly, “though you do look 
pretty ghostly. Let me get you some of the 
medicine I took last night,” and she started to 
leave her seat. 

Portia motioned her to stop. 

“I do not want any medicine — the coffee is 
all that is necessary.” 

She broke open a letter which she had found 
at her plate, and began to read, and as she did 
so the pallor in her face turned to a purplish 
crimson which flooded her very temples. Her 
teeth pressed her under lip between them as if 
to keep back something that would out, and 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


1 68 

her hands shook unsteadily. She finished the 
letter, however, but made no comment, then as 
the flush died out slowly from her face she 
handed it to Elizabeth and left the room. 

Joyce looked up curiously. 

“What is the matter ?” she asked ; “what has 
happened ?” 

“Something we helped to happen, I guess,” 
answered Elizabeth. “It had to happen, and 
I suppose it is better to have it over. I saw 
last night that he was going to wait no longer, 
and so I came in and called Portia to you and 
gave him a chance.” 

Joyce still did not understand. 

“What are you talking about ? Gave who a 
chance ? And to do what ? Who wasn’t going 
to wait any longer?” And she sat suddenly 
upright in her chair. 

“Are you putting this on?” asked Elizabeth, 
still holding the letter in her hand. “I have 
heard love was blind, but I thought it applied 
only to one’s own case.” There was pretended 
scorn in her voice, and she looked at Joyce in- 
dignantly. “You don’t mean to say that you 
didn’t know this had to come.” 

“That what had to come ?” 

“Didn’t you know Mr. Livingston was here 
last night ? The first time for a week.” 

Joyce dropped the glass she was about to put 
to her lips, and the spilt water ran unnoticed in 
her lap. 

“You mean—?” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


169 


“Yes, I mean,” and Elizabeth, whose voice 
was the slightest bit unsteady, scanned the let- 
ter again and handed it to her. The latter 
looked at it uneasily, and read it aloud slowly. 

“ ‘My Dear Portia : 

“ ‘Last night I asked Virginia to be my wife, 
and told her of my love. I did not ask your 
consent to do this, for I should have done it 
whether you gave it or not ; but, in God’s name, 
I ask you not to withhold it. I recognize all 
that she is to you and all that you are to her, 
and if you will let me come and talk to you con- 
cerning this more fully than I can write, I will 
be eternally grateful. 

“ ‘Faithfully, 

“ ‘Jonathan Livingston. 

“ ‘Hampstead, 4.30 A. M.’” 

Joyce dropped the note in her plate as if it 
stung her hand, and her face went deathly 
white. 

“Well,” said Elizabeth a little nervously; 
“well, why don’t you say something?” 

Joyce looked at her as if unseeing, then she 
pushed her plate away and rose quickly from 
the table and went over to the window. She 
opened it for a minute and let the rain beat in 
on her face, but still said nothing. Presently 
she turned away and came back slowly to the 
table, and her eyes were full of tears. 


170 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“Oh, if only it had not come,” she said 
brokenly; “if only it had not come! I have 
seen it from the first,” she went on after a 
moment of painful silence, “and have dreaded 
it so — for she loves him, Elizabeth. Even be- 
fore she knew it herself, I have known it — and 
she cannot marry him,” — her voice died away 
in a half shudder, and she looked at Elizabeth 
appealingly, — “she cannot marry him !” 

“Why not?” replied the latter, trying to 
speak indifferently. “His former marriage 
does not mean an unpardonable offense, even 
in the eyes of the most scrupulous. Is he to be 
denied all the joy and happiness of life because 
of a hateful mistake he made when barely more 
than a boy? We have gotten into the habit of 
taking life too seriously — we old maids. We’ve 
been reared with views — a very bad thing to be 
reared with. If I had offspring I would let 
them grow up like turnips. I would implant 
nothing in them that they couldn’t later get rid 
of, for instilled principles are apt to become dis- 
tilled disturbers later in life. It’s a painful 
mistake to have too much conscience,” and 
Elizabeth pushed Joyce in a low chair near the 
table and gave her a shake. 

“But you,” persisted Joyce miserably; 
“would you marry a divorced man?” 

“It depends upon circumstances. One never 
knows what one would do until one is forced 
to a decision.” 

“But certain principles are fundamental and 
final, and one does not have to be tested to 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


I 7 I 

know how one stands concerning them. Isn’t 
that true ?” 

Elizabeth laughed queerly. 

“The first part, yes; but I am not so sure 
about the other. We think we are very honest 
with our pretty theories and convictions, but 
when they become a personal matter we’re apt 
to see them in another light.” Her voice 
changed suddenly. “Heaven knows my heart 
aches for Virginia. She has an awful question 
to decide, and one in which none of us can help 
her.” 

She stopped abruptly and walked over to the 
window and stood for a moment looking out. 
The rain was falling steadily, and in great 
sheets beat against the panes of glass and spat- 
tered the dripping branches of the trees, which 
bent and shook in the rising wind. There was 
no sign of clearing in the heavily-clouded sky, 
and as she swept it anxiously with her eyes her 
heart seemed hardly less leadened than its color. 
She was angry with herself that it should be so 
and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently, 
and turning saw Joyce was by her side. 

“Is Virginia sick this morning that she has 
not been to breakfast?” 

The genuine distress in Joyce’s voice made 
Elizabeth pull herself together quickly. 

“I hardly think she is sick,” she said cheer- 
fully; “there is no reason why she should be. 
Suppose, however, we go and find out.” 

As they started to leave the room, Portia re- 
entered it. All trace of her sudden agitation 


172 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


was gone, and her usual quiet and gentle man- 
ner was again evident. Her face was white, 
however, and there was an anxious look upon 
it, but they saw at once it was from a different 
cause from the one they had been discussing. 

“Virginia is asleep,” she said, coming back 
to her seat at the table, “and I don’t like to 
wake her, but I have never known her to do 
this before. Her face is very much flushed and 
her breathing sounds peculiar. I am afraid 
she is sick.” 

There was no disguising the anxiety in her 
voice, and Joyce dropped her handkerchief 
nervously on the floor. 

“Let me go tip-toe in and see,” and she tried 
to speak naturally. “She is always scolding 
me for being lazy,” and she started to leave the 
room. 

“No, let me go — you’ll wake her up by star- 
ing at her, Joyce,” and Elizabeth pushed the 
latter back into her chair. 

Portia laid a hand on an arm of each. 

“Wait a moment,” she said gently. “You 
have read the letter that I gave you. I gave it 
to you, for you should know, as my girls have 
a right to know, all that concerns each other; 
but no word of this has passed between Vir- 
ginia and myself, and until it does I think you 
will understand very well that I cannot talk 
about it, even to you. She would keep back 
nothing from you, but neither would she talk 
often of so personal a matter, and until she de- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


*73 


cides for herself, and until she asks us about 
them, I think it would be best, perhaps, for us 
to keep to ourselves our opinions concerning 
the question she has to decide.” Her voice 
broke and she bit her lip sharply. 

Splendid, brave Portia ! She had conquered 
so much in life, but not until the night before 
had she really conquered herself. Firm and 
unyielding as granite were her own convictions, 
but she would not force them on another, not 
even on the little sister whose keeping had been 
hers since the day of her birth, well nigh. She 
was a woman now, this little sister. A woman 
who must choose her own path, and make her 
own place in life, and she must choose it for 
herself. 

The struggle of the night had been sharp 
and bitter, but Portia had seen at last that it 
was not required of her to force her convictions 
on the conscience of another, and Elizabeth, 
who understood, as Joyce did not, how hard 
had been the fight to reach such a decision and 
to gain such a victory over her own will, felt 
her throat grow hot and tight, and without 
waiting to hear more left the room quickly. 
When she came back there was a sober look on 
her face that was unusual. 

“Virginia is awake and insists upon getting 
up,” she said, trying to speak carelessly, “but 
I don’t think she ought to. She has taken 
cold somehow, and I am going to fix something 
for her throat, and while I am doing it I wish 


174 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


you’d go and tell her to behave herself and stay 
in bed all day.” 

Portia and Joyce were both out of the room 
before Elizabeth had finished, and together 
they ran up the steps. Virginia was sitting up 
in bed with her hands clasped around her knees, 
and her hair falling in loose curls down her 
back, and they understood at once the look on 
Elizabeth’s face. 

“I’m as hoarse as a frog,” she said in a 
whisper, though trying to laugh it off. “I 
think I took cold last night. I forgot the shut- 
ters were open and the rain has nearly ruined 
the matting. Don’t look at me like that, Joyce ; 
I’m not dead. I’ll be all right to-morrow.” 

Joyce did not answer, but looked at Virginia 
staringly. A brilliant color was in the latter’s 
cheeks, and her eyes were bright and shining, 
but there was a drawn look about the mouth 
that cut Joyce to the heart. Portia went over 
to the bed and put her cool hands on Virginia’s 
flushed face. 

“You have taken cold, dearie,” she said 
gently, giving her the usual morning kiss ; “and 
you must stay in bed all day, and, as Elizabeth 
says, behave yourself, so that you’ll be all right 
to-morrow. Brydon may be back to-morrow, 
you know.” 

Virginia lay back as if suddenly faint. 
Portia’s voice was bright and cheerful, and the 
distress that she had dreaded to hear was no- 
where evident. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


175 


Could she know — did Joyce know — and 
Elizabeth? It seemed a long time ago, and 
she was very tired. There was a pain in her 
side that came and went curiously, and a great 
weight seemed to be upon her chest. She would 
talk to them after a while, after the weight 
lifted — and Portia need not worry. 

She tried to say something to Joyce, but the 
whisper was so low that Joyce had to stoop 
over in order to hear it, and as she did so she 
hugged her to her heart, and without answer- 
ing ran out of the room. 

Virginia looked inquiringly at Portia. 

“What is the matter with Joyce?” and she 
made an effort to speak louder. “One would 
think I was going to die because I can’t talk 
very well.” 

“She is not used to seeing you sick,” and 
Portia smiled bravely. “Is there a pain in 
your side, darling, that you put your hand there 
now and then? Show me where it is,” and 
Portia knelt by the bed and took Virginia’s 
hand in hers, while her heart contracted with 
a horrible fear. 

“It isn’t much,” said Virginia, as usual mak- 
ing little of pain. “It just comes and goes.” 
She caught her breath sharply and gripped 
Portia’s hand until it hurt. “That one was 
pretty bad, but they don’t last long. I will be 
all right presently, so don’t bother. I think I 
would like to go to sleep if I can. I did not 
sleep very well last night,” and she looked at 
Portia beseechingly. 


17 6 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


The latter slipped one arm under her head 
and with the other drew her tightly to her 
heart. 

“ I know you did not, little sister, and I know 
why. I know all about it, and when the pain 
is gone and the hoarseness is better we will talk 
it over, and whatever will make yon happiest, 
whatever you think best to do, I will agree to, 
and now you must sleep.” 

Portia’s eyes were full of tears, but Vir- 
ginia’s were dry and searching, and she looked 
at Portia with a strange questioning in them. 

“Do you think God cares that I suffer in try- 
ing to find out what is right?” she asked in a 
whisper. “Do you think He cares ?” 

Portia nodded, but for a moment did not 
speak. 

“I think He not only cares, but that some- 
times He needs us, little sister, almost as much 
as we need Him — needs us to help Him do His 
part.” 

A sharp pain made Virginia gasp again, and 
she lay back on her pillow, with teeth clenched, 
to keep Portia from seeing it. 

“I do not know,” she said wearily. “I only 
know that I want to do what is right. I am 
willing to suffer for what is right, but not for 
foolish morbidness. Sometimes one becomes 
over-conscientious and cannot discriminate. I 
should not like to do that, and yet it is very 
dark — and it is so easy to stumble in the dark.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


!77 


She closed her eyes and shivered slightly, 
and Portia, getting up from her knees, covered 
her up warmly. 

She was genuinely alarmed now, and going 
out into the hall, went over to the ’phone. 

“I have sent for the doctor, if that is what 
you want, Portia,” called Elizabeth, coming 
out of the dining-room with something smok- 
ing hot on a tray. “Virginia will be all right 
in the morning, but it won’t do any harm to 
let him see her to-day. Please come down here 
and do something to Joyce. She is all to pieces 
and I can do nothing with her. A person can’t 
even have a cold these days,” she went on 
grumblingly, “without somebody getting ex- 
cited over it. I wish to Heaven every man on 
earth was at the bottom of the Dead Sea, and 
with a stone tied to him, too !” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


The rain beat pitilessly on the roof, and made 
a ceaseless assault on the window panes, as if 
to test their power of resistance. Out on the 
lawn the trees bent and shook under the sweep 
of the wind, and the vines and flowers yielded 
unresistingly to the attack upon them, and lay 
dragged and battered on the soaked earth and 
dripping grass. The clouds hung low and 
heavy in the sky, and with the earth and air 
radiated a grayness and dreariness that was 
penetrating and depressing, and as powerful as 
a superstition of childhood. 

Although the last day of June, a log fire was 
burning in the hall at Spinstervilla, and close to 
it, down on the rug with her knees drawn up 
between her tightly-clasped hands, Joyce was 
sitting in silent wretchedness and miserable 
misgivings. 

Virginia was ill — Virginia was ill! The 
light of the house had gone suddenly out, and 
a great stillness was upon it. Virginia was ill. 
All day the words had been sounding in her 
ears and hammering at her heart, and as twi- 
light came on the strain was becoming un- 
bearable. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


179 


Something she had read once, a list of dreary 
things, had persistently repeated itself over and 
over in her mind, and to get rid of its mono- 
tone was impossible. “A nursery when the 
child has died” ; a “grate when the fire is dead” 
— that was how it had seemed all day, and 
would seem until Virginia was well again. 
The doctor had looked grave when he came 
out of the room, and she had heard him tell 
Portia he would come late in the afternoon, 
and for the last hour she had listened to each 
tick of the clock and hoped each minute to 
hear him ride up. 

The wind blew a sudden gust of rain against 
the window pane and the branch of a tree 
tapped lightly upon it, and jumping up nerv- 
ously she saw the doctor entering the hall at 
last. 

“I am so thankful you have come,” she said, 
trying to speak calmly. “You can go right up, 
they are waiting,” and she led the way to Vir- 
ginia’s door. 

Outside she waited miserably, but his visit 
was long, alarmingly long. What if she should 
be worse? If so she would ’phone over to 
Hampstead for Livingston at once. He had a 
right to know ; moreover, they knew little about 
this doctor — he might be very good, he might 
not, but Livingston would know what to do. 

The doctor came out after a while, followed 
by Elizabeth, and his face looked even graver 
than in the morning, and at sight of it Joyce’s 


i8o 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


voice died away in her throat as she tried to ask 
it there had been any change during the day. 
Elizabeth followed him to the door and went 
outside with him, and as Joyce heard her close 
it behind her she knew what it meant — knew 
that Elizabeth wanted to say something, to ask 
something she did not wish her to hear, and 
her heart contracted with a suffocating fear. 
She was ashamed of herself, terribly ashamed 
that she should be so unnerved at the possibility 
of Virginia’s being very ill; but unnerved she 
was. To-morrow she would be braver — to-day 
she had been as a terror-stricken child. 

Elizabeth came in from the porch, and her 
face looked suddenly drawn and haggard, but 
there was no flinching in her eyes and her voice 
was quiet when she spoke. 

“Is it because you have seen it before that 
you thought it was what the doctor fears it is 
going to be?” she asked gravely. “Is that 
what has been the matter all day, dear ?” 

Joyce bent her head, and then she fell into a 
sudden sobbing that shook her whole frame, 
and Elizabeth, alarmed at her loss of control, 
took her in her arms and soothed her as if she 
were a little child. After a while the sobbing 
grew less and less and the tension of the day 
relaxed a little as Joyce unburdened her heart 
of the fear that had filled it since she had seen 
Virginia’s face that morning and had heard the 
sharp indrawing breath and realized the acute- 
ness of the pain with which she suffered. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE l8l 

“Twice before I have seen it — once when 
mother died and again when Claudia was 
taken,” she whispered quiveringly. “And oh, 
Elizabeth, you do not know — you do not know 
what it means to give up those you love the 
best! Yours who were dearest died when you 
were too little to understand. You do not 
know, you do not know,” and her voice died 
away in a gasping sob. 

“There are bitterer ways of giving up than 
death,” Elizabeth answered slowly, and the 
pain in her voice was a note that Joyce had 
never heard before. “But we must be brave, 
dear, you and I, for Portia’s sake. The doctor 
fears pneumonia, though as yet it has not de- 
veloped. Every breath must be watched, how- 
ever, and nothing taken for granted — and now 
I must go back to her.” 

She gave Joyce a swift, tender kiss, and hur- 
ried up the steps to Virginia’s room, and Joyce, 
waiting until she was well in it, went over to 
the ’phone and called up Livingston. 

“Come over at once. Virginia is ill,” was 
all she said, and then dropped the receiver as 
if afraid of what she had done. 

The rain was still falling, but the wind had 
quieted slightly, and through the darkness 
Joyce peered for some sign of clearing weather 
for the morrow, but seeing none she walked 
restlessly from room to room, and finally came 
back to the fire and held her hands out to its 
cheerful blaze. The warmth was grateful, and 


i 82 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


as she stood there she heard a sound, and turn- 
ing saw Livingston in front of her. His face 
was set and the grip of his hand hurt badly. 

“What is it?” he asked. “For God’s sake 
don’t make me wait.” 

Joyce shook her head and tried to speak, but 
words would not come. Then turning she 
saw Brydon, and with a sob of joy and thank- 
fulness she reached out her hands and he gath- 
ered her in his arms and held her tightly there. 

Livingston turned away, but in a moment 
Joyce was by him again. 

“I did not mean to frighten you — to frighten 
you,” she repeated; “but I knew you would 
want to know. Virginia has been ill all day. 
She has not been very well for several days, and 
last night the wind blew on her for hours and 
she did not know how cold it had turned or 
how it was blowing until the harm had been 
done. The doctor says it is laryngitis and 
something else, and he fears pneumonia. She 
may be much better to-morrow, but I thought 
you would like to know.” 

Her voice was almost pleading, and Livings- 
ton, bending over, kissed her hands in silence. 

“Who is the doctor?” he asked presently. 
“Who did you say had been called in ?” 

“Dr. Sommers, the one in the village. Is he 
all right?” 

Livingston’s brow wrinkled slightly. 

“I do not know, but I am afraid not. Do 
you suppose I can see Portia? Or rather, I 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 183 

must see her. Will you please tell her I would 
like to see her as soon as possible ?” 

“She has not left Virginia to-day,” Joyce 
answered hesitatingly. “She does not know I 
sent for you. She may not like it, but” — and 
she turned to Brydon helplessly — “I should 
have wanted you to have known.” 

Brydon’s eyes grew blurred — Virginia's ill- 
ness would bring him Joyce at last. 

“I will tell her for you, John,” he said quiet- 
ly, “and she will think as we do that Joyce was 
right to let you know at once.” 

For a moment Joyce and Livingston stood 
facing each other, with hearts as bared as leaf- 
less trees, and then the latter held out his hands 
again. 

“I can never thank you enough,” he said 
simply. “Virginia is mine and I have a right 
to know.” 

He turned away and began to walk restlessly 
up and down the hall. The clock ticked mon- 
otonously and the silence grew oppressive, and 
Joyce, seeing Portia coming, slipped noiselessly 
away and left them alone. 

For a moment they faced each other in 
silence and then Livingston spoke. 

“This is no time for form or folly, Portia,” 
he said quietly, “and no chances are to be taken. 
I have asked Virginia to be my wife and she 
has told me that she loves me, and on that con- 
fession I base my claim in sharing your care of 
her now. You will let me go to her should she 


184 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


get worse — you must not keep me away. Once 
I looked into medicine and through interest in 
the subject have kept up some study of it ever 
since. I’m no doctor, but I know how to watch 
a thing of this kind and it’s the nursing that is 
most important. Hunt must come out. I’ll 
wire him to-night, if you think best, and if he 
says she is really ill you must not keep me 
away.” 

He spoke rapidly, as if afraid Portia would 
stop him, but the latter merely nodded assent 
and turned to leave without speaking. 

“Have you no word for me, Portia; have 
you nothing to say to me at all?” 

His voice was almost bitter, and as if wrung 
from his heart, and turning ^he held out her 
hand slowly. 

“If Virginia wishes to see you I will send 
for you,” she said mechanically. “I must go 
back to her now. Good-night.” 

The next day brought the doctor from the 
city, and Joyce’s fear proved only too true. An 
acute case of pneumonia had developed rapidly, 
and with it were complications that were 
serious. 

“I will come every day,” he said gravely, 
“but I can only come once and she needs closer 
attention than that. This Sommers is a fair 
doctor, but you know this trouble pretty well, 
Livingston, and if to-morrow there is no 
change you’d better look into it yourself. Did 
you say Miss Deming was a relative of yours ?” 

Livingston shook his head. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


185 

“Some day I hope she will be my wife,” he 
said quietly, holding out his hand as the train 
came in sight. “Will you be out at the same 
hour to-morrow ?” 

Hunt nodded and shook the offered hand 
silently, and before the train started he saw 
Livingston’s horses being driven rapidly up the 
hill from the little station to which he and Bry- 
don had brought him. 

Both Portia and Elizabeth bitterly objected 
to having a nurse sent out from the city. “We 
would be put aside,” they had declared, and 
they were not willing to trust Virginia to the 
care of a professional who would probably not 
consent to their assuming any of the responsi- 
bility of nursing her, and though Livingston 
thought they were wrong, he could say noth- 
ing, and in silent helplessness he watched the 
day go by. 

In the early dawn of the third morning Eliz- 
abeth came to him and told him of Virginia’s 
increasing fever and strange delirium, and he 
waited no longer, but went to her at once. She 
did not know him, but looked at him with wide- 
open eyes, and then held out her hand as if to 
speak to a stranger. He took it, and with his 
cool ones smoothed it gently and yet more 
gently while he returned her restless gaze stead- 
ily, and gradually the eyelids flickered and then 
suddenly lifted and flickered again, until finally 
there was a short sleep that was sorely needed. 

As long as it lasted Livingston sat in the 
same position, holding her hand and softly 


i86 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


smoothing it ; but when she roused and the old 
restlessness came back he got up and began to 
mix a preparation that the doctor had left for 
her to take. Stooping over he slipped his arm 
under her head and with his other hand held 
the glass to her lips. She looked at him oddly 
and then almost knocked the glass out of his 
hand. 

“I don’t like it and it’s not your business to 
make me take it,” and she tried to get away 
from him. 

“You must drink it,” he said firmly. “Quick 
— drink quick and let me put the glass away.” 

She looked at him doubtfully, then drained 
its contents, and this time knocked the empty 
glass out of his hand upon the bed. 

“I will not take any more, but you need not 
go away. Perhaps you can lift it off. It is 
very heavy,” and she looked at him appealingly. 

“What is it that is heavy?” he asked, slip- 
ping down on his knees beside the bed that he 
might better catch her gasping words. “What 
is it that is heavy, and where must I lift it off ?” 

Already she was wandering off to something 
else, however, and her eyes were now on Liv- 
ingston and now on Portia, and their brilliant 
blankness was full of restless questioning as 
she looked from one to the other; and the 
silence of the room was unbroken save for her 
labored breath. 

The minutes crawled by slowly, and Livings- 
ton, whose ear caught every sound and whose 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


187 


eye missed no flush or change of expression, 
and whose fingers were almost constantly on 
Virginia’s pulse, sat motionless with white, set 
face and stern, determined lines about his 
mouth. 

Virginia was ill, desperately ill; but he had 
fought death before and he would fight it now 
to the bitter end. He thanked God that Bry- 
don was here. He had gotten back before the 
receipt of his letter regarding Parker, but there 
had been no time to discuss the subject-matter 
in it or even to mention it to him, for there was 
but one thought now, and all else in the world 
was as nothing beside it. Portia had stood up 
bravely through the shock of this sudden ill- 
ness, but she was unapproachable in her suffer- 
ing, and outside of Virginia’s room she was 
white and silent ; and though he knew well that 
she disapproved of his presence in the sick 
room, it did not matter. If all heaven and 
all earth had disapproved he would still have 
gone in. 

The soft gray dawn gave way gradually to a 
rosy glow that crept through the blinds, and 
Elizabeth turned them quietly to keep out the 
warm flush of radiant sunlight that presently 
threatened to flood the room. 

Outside the birds twittered and jabbered and 
sang little snatches of song and greeting to 
each other, and the fragrance of fresh flowers 
was wafted faintly in. It was a July morning, 
warm and rich and glorious in color and per- 


1 88 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


fume and splendor, and the storm of a few 
days before had but freshened the earth for a 
renewed outburst of giving, and all nature 
seemed aglow with vigor and beauty and the 
joy of living. 

The day was Sunday, and in the village the 
chimes were ringing their message of hope and 
peace, and through the distance they sounded 
sweet and soft and low. Virginia heard them 
and tried to raise her head to listen better, then 
she put her hand to her throat piteously. 

“If you do not take it away, I cannot sing,” 
she whispered hoarsely. “They will wait for 
me and I cannot sing. Will you not take it 
away?” and she turned again to Livingston 
with eyes that were pleading with pain. 

Portia buried her face in her hands, but made 
no sound, and Elizabeth went over to the win- 
dow and closed it sharply. The sunshine was 
unbearable. They were fighting death — and 
sunshine and flowers and the singing of birds 
belonged to life. To-day they were a mockery. 


CHAPTER XIX 


The days dragged wretchedly away, and 
through the long hours of each, with only short 
intervals of absence, Livingston sat by Vir- 
ginia’s bed and watched each breath and noted 
every sign. 

On the seventh day the doctor told them by 
night there would be a change. Virginia 
would be better — or — 

Joyce did not wait to hear more, but quiver- 
ing with a terror that could not be controlled 
she had gone out of the house and hidden her- 
self away from them all, even from Brydon, 
that she might lessen for a few minutes, at 
least, the tension of the terrible strain which 
was hourly threatening to be more than she 
could endure. 

Through the weary hours Livingston watch- 
ed unflinchingly, however, and toward evening 
Virginia, worn and spent from her ceaseless 
tossing, lay quiet at last; but even worse than 
the delirium of fever was this awful stillness 
that had now come upon her, and Elizabeth, 
who had never faltered through all the trying, 
pitiful days when she would coax and plead 
and cry out for some one to take the heavy 


190 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


something from her heart, had gone out of the 
room and had locked herself in her own, and 
had sunk in abandonment on her knees at the 
thought that Virginia, perhaps, was to leave 
them after all. 

It could not — could not be ! Virginia to be 
under the sod — Virginia to be still and voice- 
less and motionless forever ! Great God ! 

The question she had asked as a little child 
when her mother died came back to her — “Why 
did God make us just to die us?” Why should 
Virginia be taken and she live ? Why ? Why ? 
Why? Life was one great Why. 

Outside she could hear Brydon and Irving 
and Laurie pacing up and down below her win- 
dow. They were not talking, and she knew 
they were anxiously waiting now to hear the 
last report ; but she could not give it to them — 
she could not trust herself to see them. Irving 
and Laurie had come immediately in response 
to Brydon’s wire telling them of Virginia’s ill- 
ness, and for several days past they had been 
almost constantly at the house, going over each 
night to Hampstead and returning next morn- 
ing with a helpless desire to be near and an 
anxiety too great to be away, and now when, 
man-like, they were childishly dependent on 
her for hope and courage, she was failing them, 
was giving way. 

She was a coward. She had believed herself 
brave; had thought she was equal to what life 
demanded, and yet over there Portia and Liv- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


I 9 I 

ingston were facing every advance and fighting 
every move, and if her heart strings were torn 
and aching, what were theirs ? 

The clock on the mantel struck the hour of 
seven, and with a shudder she got up slowly 
from her knees. She must go back, she might 
be needed. For a moment she stood in a voice- 
less agony of prayer, then went over to the 
silent chamber across the hall and entered it. 

Livingston lifted his head warningly. Vir- 
ginia's eyes were losing their wide and restless 
stare and the eyelids were flickering every now 
and then. To startle her might be fatal, and 
he motioned Elizabeth to sit by the door. 

Portia was kneeling by the bed with eyes 
tearless, but full of a passionate appeal that 
watched each movement of Livingston’s as 
though in his hands lay her only hope; and 
Joyce, who was calm again, was sitting in rigid 
silence near the window. 

The ticking of the clock in the hall below 
sounded ominously loud and weird in its mon- 
otonous regularity as the minutes dragged 
themselves out slowly, but presently they saw 
the flickering eyelids rest and saw also that Liv- 
ingston’s fingers were no longer on Virginia’s 
pulse. 

“Thank God!” they heard him mutter, and 
as Portia caught his meaning, something within 
her gave way and the strain and suffering of 
the week past was lost for a while in blessed 
unconsciousness. 


192 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


When later she opened her eyes she struggled 
to get up from the couch upon which they had 
put her, but Elizabeth shook her head. “She is 
asleep,” she whispered, “and upon the length of 
it depends her life,” and with a firm but gentle 
hand she pushed her back, and Portia, with 
heart that was barely beating, lay still, relaxed, 
immovable, yet making a final and supreme 
effort to stifle the question she dare not, dare 
not ask. 

The pale light of dawn gave way to a rosy 
flush and still Virginia slept. The flush deep- 
ened into a widening flood of light and she slept 
on, but Livingston, bending over her, would not 
yet relax his guard. Elizabeth was watching 
him closely, and presently something she saw 
in his face caused a sudden rush of blood to 
surge over her’s and her heart throbbed with 
such powerful pulsing that she scarce could 
breathe, and she wanted to fly out into the 
woods and thank God. 

Virginia would live ! The birds would help 
her sing it — Virginia would live! The wind 
would carry the message to all who loved her — 
Virginia would live! Virginia would live! 
Thank God — thank God — thank God ! 

Livingston was sitting by her when finally 
she waked, and she held out her hand in feeble 
recognition. He took it in his and kissed it 
gently, but he did not speak and neither did 
she. Her eyes looked questioningly into his, 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


*93 


however, and seeing it he called Portia over to 
the bed and quietly left the room, and for the 
first time in a week went over to Hampstead for 
a few hours of sorely-needed rest. 

When he came back he sent for Portia and 
begged that he might be allowed to 'phone for 
a nurse. 

“The worst is over, I hope,” he said; “but 
most careful watching is still needed and you 
and the girls are no longer equal to it. You 
have held out with almost superhuman strength, 
but you cannot keep it up and each of you will 
be ill if you do not soon have rest.” 

“Not to-day, Mr. Livingston,” she answered 
almost pleadingly; “please not to-day. Let us 
get her a little farther from the danger line be- 
fore we trust her to any one else. I know it is 
foolish, but I have had one or two very unfor- 
tunate experiences with nurses, and I cannot 
get over my prejudice against them. Many of 
them I know are invaluable, and nobler women 
have never lived than some of them, but others” 
— she shook \ er head protestingly. “It is 
like everything else in life — there are good and 
bad among them, and if they pretend to know 
their business they put every one else aside, and 
I am not willing to be put aside just yet.” 

“Well, to-morrow; may I get one to- 
morrow ?” 

Portia still shook her head. 

“Virginia will be stronger to-morrow I hope, 
but you may send for one the day after if you 
still think best.” 


i 9 4 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


In the morning Virginia’s improvement was 
so marked that even before the doctor came Liv- 
ingston had ’phoned for a nurse to be sent out 
the next day, for he saw that the strain and 
anxiety of the week that was past was begin- 
ning to tell plainly on each member of the little 
household, and unless rest was gotten soon 
some one else would probably be sick also. 

During the day he saw Virginia frequently, 
though only for a few moments at a time; but 
the next afternoon she motioned him to her 
side. 

“Joyce tells me you have been a wonderful 
nurse, but to-day you are just a doctor,” and 
she tried to speak lightly, though her voice was 
very low. “You do not stay long enough for 
me to even thank you — ” 

He put out his hand to stop her, but before 
he could speak Elizabeth came hurriedly into 
the room. 

“The nurse has come, Mr. Livingston ; shall 
I bring her right in ?” 

Livingston turned to Portia. 

“Shall she come in?” 

Portia nodded and walked toward the door, 
and Livingston, bending over Virginia, felt the 
blood surge suddenly through his every vein 
from the look in her face as she raised her eyes 
to his. 

There was no faltering, no disguise in it, and 
it was only by a mighty effort that he kept his 
arms from gathering her to his heart. She was 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


T 95 


his — thank God ! He had won her from death 
and she should be his as long as life lasted. 
His— His— His ! 

The flame in his face flushed even his tem- 
ples, and then Virginia saw it whiten with a 
pallor that was worse than death. A noise at 
the door had caused him to look up, and as he 
did so he rose slowly from his chair and stood 
with his hands grasping it tightly. 

She too turned and looked toward the door, 
and with a little cry held out her hands to him 
as if in fear. 

The nurse came farther into the room, but at 
the look on Livingston’s face Portia and Eliza- 
beth instinctively drew back, and then they saw 
it flash with an anger that leaped into sudden 
uncontrol. 

“In the name of God !” they heard him say, 
“what are you doing here ?” 

The woman who had come to nurse Virginia 
was Margaret Grey — his divorced wife. 


CHAPTER XX 


Virginia’s convalescence was as rapid as her 
illness had been sharp and sudden, and though 
Livingston feared that the shock of his former 
wife’s appearance in her room might affect her 
seriously, it seemed, on the contrary, to give her 
a sudden renewal of strength. 

She would not let them send her away at 
once. With her keen intuition she divined in- 
stantly that there was a reason for this visit, 
this sudden posing as a nurse, and she wanted 
to find out what it was, so she motioned them 
to leave the room, and then turned to Mrs. 
Grey. 

“Have you come to nurse me?” she asked a 
little unsteadily, though her eyes did not flinch. 
“Have you come to nurse me, Mrs. Grey ?” 

“Not a bit of it, little puritan. I simply came 
to see what you were like.” She leaned care- 
lessly on the foot of the bed, and resting her 
elbows upon it looked mockingly down upon its 
occupant. 

“And may I ask why you care to see me?” 
Virginia was surprised at the strength of her 
own voice, but something within her was hard- 
ening, and she felt herself facing a fight. 

Mrs. Grey laughed insolently. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


197 


“Usually I don’t give reasons ; but I’ve been 
bearing some pretty stories about you lately, 
and I thought I’d run out and see how much 
truth there was in them.” 

“And why as a nurse ?” 

The other shrugged her shoulders again. 

“Two birds with one stone. By posing as 
a nurse, you — and my husband — I could see 
together.” 

Her eyebrows lifted contemptuously, and she 
looked at Virginia with eyes full of mocking 
scorn and defiance. 

“And so this is what he loves!” and she 
laughed insolently again. 

“And your nurse’s costume — from whom did 
you get it ?” 

“From my nurse, little questioner. My nurse 
was sent for to come to you, and I locked her 
up in my apartments and took her clothes and 
came myself. Rather becoming, aren’t they?” 
and she surveyed herself critically in the mirror 
opposite. 

“And your nurse’s name, what was it ?” 

Mrs. Grey turned and again rested her elbows 
on the foot of the bed. 

“And what can that matter? She is my 
nurse, not yours. I’ve a nasty heart, which has 
attacks every now and then, and I pay her to 
be always on call. They had no business to 
send for her to come to you, and so I came my- 
self. I wanted to see what sort of a little 
creature you were, and as this was a good 


1 98 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


opportunity to do so, I took advantage of it. 
1 always take advantage of my opportunities/' 
and her inscrutable eyes looked mockingly 
down into Virginia's upturned face. 

“And have you come back to New York to 
be near Mr. Livingston ?" 

Mrs. Grey started as if the words stung, then 
she threw out her hands with a meaning little 
gesture. 

“Precisely. He was once my husband, and 
though it pleases him at present to rather ignore 
me, I do not intend to let him forget me, never- 
theless." 

With a sneer she walked away from the bed 
and over to the window, and Virginia, reaching 
out, touched the button by her side, and in- 
stantly Portia was in the room again. 

“Will you please see that this lady is driven 
to the station in time for the next train," she 
said slowly; and then she looked toward Mrs. 
Grey, who had turned quickly. “I will not 
need you any longer, and now I must ask you 
to leave my room at once." 

The latter stood a moment as if not under- 
standing, and then burst into a mirthless laugh. 

“What charming manners, little puritan. 
And so you would really have me go? .Then 
I will; but if I were you I would not mention 
to the doctor that I did not like my nurse. It 
might not be pleasant for you, and your nurse 
wouldn't mind it in the least." 

With a little wave of the hand she was gone, 
and Portia, closing the door behind her, saw by 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


199 


the look on Virginia’s face that Mrs. Grey had 
gained nothing by her daring scheme to see her. 

It was over so soon, like a flash in a clear 
sky, that the excitement caused by Mrs. Grey’s 
visit quickly died out in the relief of the realiza- 
tion that Virginia was not made worse by it, 
and by the latter’s wish that no further refer- 
ence be made concerning it. 

Brydon’s indignation, however, was not so 
easily controlled, and the audacity of the 
woman’s act roused all his old hatred of her to 
a degree that was delightful to Joyce and Eliza- 
beth, at least, and they did not attempt to stop 
any remarks he made concerning her. 

“It was just like her,” he declared hotly, 
when he heard the story of her visit. “She 
stops at nothing, and dares anything, and she’s 
back in New York to make trouble for John. 
I wish to Heaven she was dead and buried! 
If she were a man one could handle her; but a 
woman — who can manage a woman?” And 
he shrugged his shoulders in disgust. 

“Another woman,” answered Joyce promptly. 
“Mrs. Grey won’t have it all her own way if 
the test ever comes. But where is she living in 
New York?” 

“Who knows ? She must be watched, how- 
ever ; but John will never do it. To him she is 
as dead as Jupiter, but she’ll make him hear 
from her yet, unless I’m mistaken. She loves 
notoriety as much as he hates it, and to have 
her own way she would hesitate at nothing.” 


200 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“Do you suppose she loves him?” asked Eliz- 
abeth. “For unless she does, I can’t under- 
stand this interest in him.” 

Brydon laughed skeptically. 

“Interest! Hate can cause interest as well 
as love. She is not capable of loving — she is 
too selfish and soulless. What is that little 
saying about the fury of a woman scorned? 
Well, I think that’s the feeling she has for him. 
She could not conquer him, and she hates him 
for it — hates him for his indifference to her 
beauty and her power, and for the readiness 
with which he agreed to her suit for divorce. 
Oh, she hates him all right; but how in the 
Devil did she find out about Virginia? Beg 
pardon, but I’m never sure of myself when I 
talk about Margaret Grey. Hers is a name to 
swear at, and I think if I could get out in the 
woods and make a few remarks I’d feel better. 
But how do you suppose she found out that 
John” — he hesitated slightly — “that John is in 
love with Virginia?” 

The girls shook their heads. The question 
was as unanswerable to them as to him. Evi- 
dently, however, she had some one watching 
Livingston’s movements. 

“I said as much to him last night,” grumbled 
Brydon, “but he doesn’t believe it, or rather he 
is perfectly indifferent to it; but the thing lie 
isn’t indifferent to is her coming out here. 
He’s at white heat about that, and whatever else 
he may in time forgive her for, that will not be 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


201 


one of the things included. Has Virginia said 
anything about it to either of you ?” 

Joyce shook her head slowly, while Elizabeth 
left the room without answering, and then 
Joyce looked at Brydon doubtfully. 

“She has never said anything to us about 
anything,” she began vaguely, “and I don’t 
think it’s quite right in us to talk about it, even 
to ourselves, until she does — do you?” Her 
face flushed, though she smiled slightly at the 
ambiguousness of her words. “I mean we 
oughtn’t to discuss her affairs until” — she hesi- 
tated again — “until she has decided what she 
is going to do.” 

Brydon pretended not to see the troubled 
eyes, which he longed mightily to kiss, but in- 
stead he put his hands in his pockets for safe- 
keeping, and then he looked at her with sudden 
determination. 

“I don’t suppose we ought, and though I’m 
terribly interested in her and Jack, I am very 
much more personally interested, at present, in 
something else, and if you don’t mind telling 
me when you intend to marry me, I’ll appreciate 
the confidence very much.” 

“I can’t tell you that which I don’t know my- 
self, and besides you forget the toast we drank 
the night we heard about Portia’s money. 
Even if I don’t ‘resist love,’ I ought to ‘refuse 
matrimony’ for a little while, at least, for it 
wouldn’t be fair to repudiate our toast so soon. 
After a while we can talk about it, Brydon, but 
not now.” 


202 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“After a little while or a long while ?” and 
there was a touch of boyish impatience in his 
voice. 

“I don’t know which while,” and she laughed 
a little shakily; “but when Virginia decides to 
leave, I may follow, but I haven’t the courage 
to go first.” 

“If we’re to wait for Virginia we’ve a long 
rest ahead of us. If Margaret Grey were dead 
I would rather see John and Virginia married 
than any two people on earth — except you and 
me; but John has got his hands full to bring 
Virginia to his point of view.” 

Joyce raised her eyes questioningly. 

“Do you mean you think it would be wrong 
for her to marry him ?” 

“Wrong?” he repeated, almost querulously. 
“Wrong? No, I don’t think it would be 
wrong; but there are some women you don’t 
think of as doing certain things, and Virginia 
is one of them. One can’t associate her with 
complications of this sort. She’s the kind a 
man believes in, somehow, for she’s so clear 
white one feels she could stand a searchlight 
forever, and it rather hurts to think — ” He 
stopped abruptly, then held out his hand. “As 
you said just now, however, it’s not our busi- 
ness to discuss it; good-night.” 

Joyce looked up in surprise. 

. “You’re not going, it’s only nine o’clock.” 

“I know, but I promised John I would be 
back early to-night. He’s been trying to get 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


203 


hold of me for nearly a week to talk over some 
business matters, but I’ve dodged him as though 
he were a leper. However, it’s got to be heard, 
and to-night is as good as any other to hear it 
I suppose. Good-night.” 

“Good-night, and if what you hear isn’t in- 
teresting, perhaps to-morrow I may tell you 
something that is,” and she put her hand in his 
and looked at him with a provoking little smile 
that he could not understand. 

“All right,” he called out as he mounted his 
horse, “I’ll be over to-morrow to report.” 

On the morrow, however, he was not over, 
nor on the next day, nor for several days, and 
just as Joyce was beginning to feel indignant at 
hearing nothing further from him than a hur- 
ried note that he was compelled to stay in town 
for several days on important business, the in- 
dignation turned into consternation at the sen- 
sational article with which the paper was filled 
on the fourth day of his absence. 

There had been a long talk between Brydon 
and Livingston concerning the former’s sus- 
picions about Parker, and his reasons therefore 
were a shock to Brydon’s sunny, unsuspecting 
nature which sobered him suddenly; but not 
until the next day, when he went to his office, 
would he really believe that Livingston was not 
mistaken, was not confounding him with some 
one else. 

Parker was out of town, and no one knew his 
address. The men at his office thought Brydon 


204 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


knew it, and when they saw the look on his face 
when he heard that Parker had not been seen 
for several days, they exchanged significant 
glances among themselves, and Brydon saw at 
once that something was wrong, and something 
of which he was wholly ignorant and innocent, 
but from which he would suffer keenly never- 
theless. 

No time was to be wasted, however, and by 
night he and Livingston had been over a good 
part of Parker’s private business matters, and 
what he discovered whitened his face with 
shame that he should have been for years asso- 
ciated with a man of whose real life and char- 
acter he knew so little, and of whose rascality 
he had never dreamed. 

In addition to being an exceptionally fine 
lawyer, Parker for years had been in charge of 
several very valuable estates, and as his returns 
from these had been large, their owners had 
never inquired into his methods or asked for a 
settlement. In consequence he had first gotten 
into loose ways of doing business, and then into 
criminal ones to cover up his carelessness, and 
finally, in an effort to cover losses made in 
stocks, he had used everything available, and in 
a final throw had lost. 

It was an old story, but one that was bitterly 
new to Brydon, and the mortification of having 
his name connected with such a man aged him 
in a few days as only business troubles can, and 
Livingston, watching him, felt a thrill of pride 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


205 


that his belief in Brydon’s rock-bottom char- 
acter was about to be tested and proved, and 
knew that in the end this bitter experience 
would not be without its lesson to him. 

The next few days were the most trying of 
Bry don’s life. Through them all he and Liv- 
ingston, with the head office man, worked un- 
ceasingly, and though each day made the out- 
look blacker and more hopeless, still, not until 
the news was out and the office full of angry 
men and hysterical women clamoring to know 
the truth did he realize the full horror of it all, 
or the difference it would make in the lives of 
these people. 

He knew no more of this part of the business 
than Livingston himself, and the condition of 
Parker’s books was as much a revelation to the 
one as to the other. But what was a greater 
source of astonishment to Brydon than to Liv- 
ingston was the knowledge that his mother’s 
entire estate was in his partner’s hands, and had 
been for some while, and that without his 
knowledge. 

“Great God!” Livingston heard him say; 
“my mother will be ruined!” And he buried 
his face in his arms on the desk and shook as if 
with a chill. 

Livingston came over and stood by him. 

“Didn’t you know your mother’s affairs were 
in Parker’s hands?” he asked. “The books 
show that for four years he has had entire 
charge of her estate. Didn’t she tell you when 
she turned over things to him ?” 


20 6 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Brydon shook his head. 

“I never dreamed it. Once she asked my 
advice about doing so, and I strongly objected. 
I knew Parker had more than he could attend 
to, and besides he was a lawyer, not a trust com- 
pany, and I didn’t approve of his attending to 
these outside matters anyway. She never re- 
ferred to the subject again, and as she rarely 
mentioned business affairs to me, I supposed 
that Sharp & Cone were still attending to things 
for her as they had done for years.” 

Livingston smiled slightly. 

“Sharp & Cone are out of date for this age. 
Parker’s rates of interest were more powerful 
arguments than any you might have advanced. 
You see by his books that he has been paying 
some people, your mother especially, anywhere 
from six to twelve per cent, on some of his in- 
vestments. It’s singular, however, that she 
never mentioned to you the change she had 
made.” 

Brydon drummed his fingers on the desk 
nervously and his face flushed at Livingston’s 
words. 

“My mother has some very peculiar ideas,” 
he said a little bitterly, “and one of them is that 
she never fails in judgment, and as it happens 
that we rarely agree about anything we have 
gotten into the safe habit of never discussing 
our affairs with each other. I don’t think, 
either, that she has ever forgiven my father for 
the way he made his will, putting, as he did, my 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


207 


share of his estate in the hands of a trust com- 
pany until I was thirty-five. She thought it a 
reflection on her business capacity, and as she 
can have nothing to do with the management of 
my money, she has never permitted me to have 
anything to do with hers. Only a few months 
ago, however, she told me she was worth half 
as much again as she was when my father died, 
and that the latter must have been insane to 
have made the eccentric will he did.” 

“Your father was a very wise man,” com- 
mented Livingston briefly. “But can you ac- 
count for Parker’s special vengeance on your 
mother? Every one whose affairs were in his 
hjands will lose heavily, but your mother will 
be, with the exception of the house she lives in, 
practically penniless. He has hypothecated 
nearly every security she has, sold her property, 
forged her signature, and used his power-of- 
attorney far more freely in her case than in any 
other. He hasn’t forged your name for a 
dollar, but there seems to be something personal 
in his treatment of your mother — can you ac- 
count for it ?” 

Brydon shook his head “slowly, and then his 
expression changed. 

“Socially, mother never recognized Parker,” 
he said presently, and his face grew red with 
shame. “Once I remember she gave him the 
cut direct, and though I did all I could to fix 
it up, I don’t believe Parker ever got over it. 
They were scrupulously polite when they met, 


208 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


which was seldom ; but Parker never mentioned 
her name to me after the little affair of which I 
am speaking.” 

“Did he know that you were ignorant of her 
affairs being in his hands?” 

“I suppose so. Mother must have told him 
not to speak of it,” and Brydon wiped his fore- 
head wearily. “It’s horrible, John, horrible! 
What will the world think when it hears of this 
peculiar condition of things between mother 
and son and business partner? For the first 
time in my life I thank God my father is dead.” 

“Were your father alive this would never 
have happened,” Livingston answered shortly, 
taking a telegram from the boy at the door and 
handing it over to Brydon. “Here, this is for 
you.” 

Brydon opened it nervously. He glanced 
over it, then threw it on the desk and scribbled 
an answer. 

“It’s the third one to-day from mother,” he 
said presently. “She insists upon my coming 
immediately and telling her about this horrible 
story in the papers. I wired her to come at 
once, but she pays no attention to that of course. 
However, she must come, and this is my third 
wire to tell her so. The sooner it is over the 
better. I’m willing to make everything I pos- 
sess over to her, but unfortunately I can’t get 
hold of anything except what I’ve saved for 
some years back, and every dollar of that is to 
go toward settling the affairs of this concern.” 

Livingston looked up quickly. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


209 


'That is not required of you,” he said slowly; 
"you are in no way responsible for what has 
happened.” 

"That may be, but my name is on this door, 
and the place has gone down in disgrace. If 
I can help a little in fixing up some of these 
matters, I will be only too thankful. Mother 
will not really suffer, but some of these other 
people may. I only wish to heaven I could set- 
tle dollar for dollar with every creditor on Par- 
ker’s books.” 

Livingston held out his hand. 

"Money isn’t everything, old man — a clean 
name in comparison makes it a small matter.. 
By the way, has Parker a family?” 

Brydon nodded negatively. 

"Widower — wife died years ago and left no 
children. Strange to say, I know almost noth- 
ing of Parker socially. He prided himself on 
being something of a sport, I believe, and while 
I knew he liked cards and horses pretty well, 
still I thought it merely a weakness, not a 
passion.” 

"Well, he’s played his last game if he’s ever 
caught. The reward offered for his return is 
a pretty stimulating one, and I don’t doubt he’ll 
be found after a while, if alive.” 

"Poor devil !” and Brydon’s voice was a little 
husky. "Retribution is a terrible necessity. I 
believe after all I would rather hear he was 
dead.” 


210 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


He bent his head over his desk and pretended 
to write, but Livingston saw that his eyes were 
blurred. 

“I’m going out to-night,” he said after a 
moment, without looking up. “I can’t stand it 
any longer by myself, and besides it is only 
right that they should know more than I can 
tell them in a letter.” 

Livingston looked away. He knew well 
that all his help and comradeship and courage 
were as nothing compared to what Joyce could 
do for him; and that Brydon was longing un- 
utterably to unburden his heart to her and to 
receive in return that which a woman alone can 
give, he well understood, and the thought filled 
him with almost bitter envy. 

He took up some papers and began to look 
over them. 

‘Tm glad you’re going out,” he said, open- 
ing a large paper and glancing over it carelessly. 
“I’ll ’phone Thomas to have dinner promptly, 
so you can have a long evening.” 

“And you?” asked Brydon, turning quickly, 
“aren’t you coming too ?” 

“Not to-night. I’ve some matters to settle 
up, and don’t think I’ll go.” 

“Then of course I won’t.” 

A sigh of disappointment and weariness es- 
caped him unconsciously, and Livingston de- 
tected both instantly. 

“Indeed you will, and you will go on that 
6.20 train. Because it isn’t convenient for me 
to go is no reason for you to stay.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


2 1 1 


“Convenient the Devil !” and Brydon’s voice 
was boyishly cross. “It isn't a question of 
convenience, and if you don’t go, I won’t.” 

“All right, if you insist upon it” ; but Liv- 
ingston did not look at Brydon and the latter 
saw he had made a mistake. 

“I’m a brute,” he said humbly, “and I beg 
your pardon, Jack. I’m all on edge to-day. 
Is there anything I can do?” He looked at 
Livingston wistfully, but the latter merely 
shook his head. 

“Thanks, no ; I believe there’s nothing. 
Thomas ’phones me every day, you know.” 1 

Virginia was still sick, but not since he had 
left her room, when his former wife entered it, 
had he seen her, and Brydon understood that 
not until he was sent for would he go over 
again. 

There was a splendid patience about him, 
however, that was a new quality, for he was not 
by nature very patient or tolerant; but when 
determined he could be anything, and he was 
desperately determined just now. 

For a few moments only the scratch of Liv- 
ingston’s pen broke the silence that had fallen 
on them, and then he looked at his watch sud- 
denly. 

“If you’re going to make that 6.20 train 
you’ve no time to lose,” he said cheerfully. 
“Get a move on you, and forget everything but 
the one thing needful ; good night.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


The utter demoralization of Joyce when she 
realized the nature of Virginia’s illness was no- 
where evident when she heard of the trouble 
that had come to Brydon, and she read th'e 
startling and garbled account in the papers with 
only the quiet comment that there was no touch 
of stain upon him, and that the loss of his 
money was a small matter compared to the loss 
of some other things in life. 

To Brydon, however, she had written ur- 
gently : 

“Come to me at once and tell me everything. 
Whatever has come to you, has come to me; 
end if for you there is disgrace or sorrow or 
loss of any kind, it is disgrace and sorrow and 
loss to me ; and if you would have me believe in 
your love for me you will come at once and give 
me my portion to bear. Sometimes I have 
been afraid, sometimes I have not felt sure, but 
now I know — I know, and for the sake of the 
love we bear each other I pray you to come to 
me and tell me all.” 

Brydon came, and the warm pressure of Eliz- 
abeth’s hands, and Portia’s gentle kiss, brought 
tears to his eyes of which he was not ashamed, 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


213 


and he turned to Joyce with words that he could 
not utter, but which she could well understand. 

Late into the night they talked with the per- 
fect freedom and abandon that only trouble can 
make possible, and every detail Joyce would 
have him tell, every technicality explain, and 
every possibility face; and the strain and 
anxiety of the past few days relaxed strangely 
in the courage with which she heard it all, and 
the confidence that, for him at least, this trouble 
would not be without its blessing. 

“Sometimes I have thought your life had 
been too smooth and easy and luxurious to 
make the best out of you that was possible,” she 
said after a while, “and you needed something 
to bring you face to face with the realities that 
other people have to contend with, and possibly 
this may do it,” and she slipped her hand 
shyly into his. “Oh, Brydon, I have been sick 
with terror lest in some way you might have 
been dragged into this thing innocently. Let 
every dollar of your money go, if necessary. I 
do not know what is necessary, but if there is 
anything you could have prevented had you 
known, if there is any one who will suffer more 
than — we — let them have it. We are young 
and strong, and we can work and wait.” 

He looked at her searchingly, then with a 
great thrill of thankfulness took her in his arms. 

“We may some day have to work — but we 
are not going to wait,” he cried joyously, and 
the first note of gladness his voice had held for 


214 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


days rang richly through it. “Being a woman, 
it has taken trouble to bring you to me, and now 
may I ask when we can begin the little jour- 
ney ?” 

He held her off and looked at her anxiously, 
while the moonlight flooded her face with a 
rich radiance. 

“Whenever you think best,” and she could 
not say more because he foolishly would not let 
her. 

An experience entirely new to Mrs. Jenifer 
Irskine Field, and one not at all to her liking, 
was to be in New York in midsummer, and yet 
in response to Brydon’ s last wire she had come. 
Her knowledge of Parker’s flight from the city 
and the exposure of his rascality had been gain- 
ed chiefly from the papers, and notwithstanding 
she had wired Brydon repeatedly to come to 
her at once, she had been forced to do as he had 
first directed — come to him. 

Not for an instant did she believe that Parker 
had used any great amount of her money, or 
tampered with her bonds or property. What- 
ever he may have done to other people’s, she 
was very sure he had not dared to trifle with 
hers, and to come back to the city to look into 
matters that were no doubt entirely safe was 
irritating to a degree that was beyond control, 
and she did not see why Brydon could not have 
attended to her interests for her and thus have 
prevented* this hot and disagreeable stay in 
town. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


215 

That she was in a state of indignation and 
irritation, but not of anxiety or alarm, Brydon 
saw at once, and her first words made him real- 
ize he had a painful experience before him. 

“And where is Mr. Parker ?” she asked when 
their greeting was over and they had plunged 
into the subject uppermost in the minds of each. 
“Why doesn’t he come and settle this thing for 
himself? It isn’t your place to do it.” 

Brydon changed his position restlessly. 

“You don’t seem to understand, mother, that 
Mr. Parker is terribly involved. He has been 
speculating heavily of late, trying to get back 
what he had lost, and instead going down 
deeper and deeper each day, and when finally 
he saw it was all up, he skipped — has gone to 
the Devil for all we know, and of course he will 
never come back unless he is brought. Hun- 
dreds of thousands of dollars are involved, and 
while all who had any private business relations 
with him will lose, some will do so much more 
heavily than others.” 

He paused — the look on his mother’s face 
checked him. She was sitting rigidly upright, 
but her hands had ceased to twirl the fan she 
held in them. 

“Do you mean to say that everybody who 
had put their affairs in his charge will lose 
something — everybody?” The tone of her 
voice was that of incredulity. 

Brydon nodded. 

“That is what I mean.” 


21 6 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“And I ? — do you mean to say that I will be 
a loser by this man ?” 

He nodded again. 

“Of course, that is why I sent for you. 
Didn’t you understand why I had sent for 
you ?” 

She stiffened even more rigidly. 

“I supposed you sent for me to know what 
change I wished made and whom I wished to 
take charge of my matters.” 

“And you did not fear that you, too, were 
involved in this thing?” 

“Of course not, why should I ? Mr. Parker 
was your partner and I could not conceive of 
his taking so great a liberty as to act without 
my consent or instructions. Do you mean to 
say that he has used my money — misappropri- 
ated my funds ? Is this what you have sent for 
me to hear ?” 

Had it not been so tragic, Brydon would 
have smiled at the tone his mother’s voice had 
taken, and at her utter lack of conception of the 
methods of a dishonest man. Did she suppose 
Parker was likely to have asked her permission 
to forge her name ? 

He ran his handkerchief across his face and 
mopped the perspiration from it before answer- 
ing. His mother’s dignity to-day was out of 
order, and by a perversion of will he could not 
fail to see its comical side. 

She waited a moment in stiff silence, then 
repeated her question : 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


217 


“Am I to understand you have sent for me 
to tell me that Mr. Parker has been using my 
money ?” 

Brydon got up and began to walk restlessly 
up and down the room with his hands in his 
pockets. 

“I sent for you, mother, because I thought I 
could better explain things to you by talking 
than by writing, and moreover your presence is 
required here by law. It is very hard for me 
tc tell you what I must tell you, and I wish to 
God it had been my money, not yours, that Par- 
ker has made away with, but it will do no good 
to keep back anything, and if you will let me I 
will tell you all I know about this miserable 
business.” 

For an hour he talked, and in anger and dis- 
may too great for words his mother listened — 
listened as one stunned into silence by the 
awfulness of what she had heard. Her face 
had turned to a pallor that was frightful, and 
Brydon, seeing it, rang quickly and ordered 
some wine to be sent up at once. 

She pushed it from her in disdain. 

“1 do not need it. Go on with this pretty 
tale you are telling — the tale of a son who 
allows his mother to be robbed before his eyes.” 

The scorn in her voice was withering, and 
the glass in Brydon’s hand dropped with a crash 
at his feet. 

“Take back those words — there are some 
things a man does not allow even his mother to 


2l8 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


say to him !” and Brydon’s voice rang out clear 
and hard. 

She made a gesture of dissent. 

“Go on,” she said coldly; “go on to the end.” 

“Not until you retract what you have said.” 

She got up and stood before him in a frenzy 
of shock and rage and despair. 

“Take them back? How can I take them 
back? Is it not true that I am penniless — a 
pauper, a bankrupt — and my son tells me it is 
his partner who has made me so?” 

Her voice was shrill and high, and her hands 
tore the lace on her gown into shreds. Her 
face was twitching painfully, and Brydon saw 
the shock had been too much for her. He 
poured out another glass of wine, and pushing 
her back into a chair held it to her lips and 
forced her to drink it. 

She leaned back a moment with her eyes 
closed, then suddenly sat upright again as if 
swept by a fresh wave of fury. 

“If it is not true, what I have said, prove it !” 
she cried excitedly. “I am robbed of my money 
and my son loses none of his. There is some- 
thing behind this. You want to humble me — 
to make me welcome this nobody as your wife — 
to make me yield to your wishes — and you let 
my money be stolen that I may become the 
object of your charity ! My God — I to be de- 
pendent ! I to be penniless !” 

She held her jeweled hands out in front of 
her and stared at them wildly, then in a passion 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 219 

of anger that was transforming, she rose and 
pointed her finger at him. 

“Listen! You think you have conquered 
me, but you do not know me. Beggar me — 
rob me — defy me — do what you will, but I shall 
never call this girl you wish to marry — my 
daughter! May my tongue cleave unto my 
mouth, may my voice — ” She swayed heavily 
and put her hand to her throat, then sank sud- 
denly to the floor. 

It took only a few minutes for the doctors to 
reach her, for Livingston to come, for a nurse 
to be on hand, but those few minutes were an 
eternity to Brydon, who watched in a dazed 
silence by the bed of his mother, who, if she 
died, would die with an accusation on her lips 
and a curse in her heart for her only son. 

He buried his face in his hands and prayed 
God to spare her that she might repent — to par- 
don her should she not live to pray for pardon 
for herself. 

Through the long night the doctors and 
nurse worked faithfully; and Livingston, wait- 
ing quietly in the next room, for Brydon’s sake, 
stayed near. From him he had learned enough 
to make him guess more, and to understand that 
the shock and rage caused by the realization of 
her loss had been but the climax to the stored- 
up anger and opposition that for some time past 
she had been nourishing in her heart against 
Brydon for his daring love of a girl she would 
not know. 


220 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


By morning the doctors said there was a 
chance for recovery; in a few days they could 
tell better, however. The stroke had been a 
severe one, but they had seen equally as bad. 
Consciousness had not returned, but that would 
probably be all right. Her speech? They 
could not tell about that, and they had shaken 
hands and left. 

Through the next two or three days Brydon 
hovered between the bedside of his mother and 
his office. Out of his hands the court had 
taken all of Parker’s affairs, but his own pri- 
vate ones needed attention, and for many hours 
he talked with the trustees of his property, try- 
ing to devise some way by which he could trans- 
fer a part of his estate to his mother should she 
live. 

There was no way, however. All of his ac- 
cumulated income he had turned over to the 
receivers for the benefit of Parker’s creditors, 
and the only thing he could do was to order that 
in the event of his mother’s recovery a certain 
portion of his income was to be deposited to her 
credit. 

The bitterness in his heart for her unnatural 
behavior rankled deeply, and he was miserably 
afraid she would die before he had forgiven 
her. For hours he would watch by her side, 
and as he saw the face grow pinched and gray, 
and noticed the wrinkles and lines which she 
had known so cleverly how to hide, he was filled 
with great pity that she had so wasted the possi- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


221 


bilities of womanhood and motherhood, and his 
heart was terrified at the emptiness of her hands 
should her soul be required of her as he 
watched. 

But it was not to be required of her just yet. 
After a while she opened her eyes and looked at 
him, and the light of consciousness was in 
them, and she tried to speak, but she could not, 
and so long as she should live she would never 
speak again, the doctors said. 

The horror, the awful horror, that crept into 
her face as the truth of this came over her broke 
down all bitterness in Brydon’s heart, and he 
knelt by her bed and buried his face in his hands 
in a pitiful sobbing he could not control. After 
all, she was his mother — and now speechless, 
helpless ! 

All else was forgotten and he was a boy 
again. She had given him life — God help him, 
he would be faithful to the end ! 


CHAPTER XXII 


Virginia lay back in a steamer chair which 
had been placed in the coolest corner of the 
veranda for her, and looked out upon the broad 
fields as they stretched away in green undula- 
tions, and beyond them to the silvery thread of 
the river which wound its way lazily between. 
It was very beautiful, very peaceful and restful, 
and she was grateful that it was still hers to 
enjoy, and yet — she closed her eyes sharply. 
The loneliness, the absence of the years to come 
suddenly confronted her, and she was conscious 
of a great shrinking from the sacrifice that life 
appeared to ask of her. Was she right ? Was 
she doing right ? How could she know ? Was 
she to go on indefinitely with this question for- 
ever in her heart ? 

So many strange and dreadful things had 
happened since that night only a few weeks ago 
when they were sitting on the veranda with the 
outlook of a quiet, happy, hum-drum life before 
them. And since then — Elizabeth was right, 
they were getting like people in books; they 
were getting mixed up with sensational things, 
and the experience was horrible. She was 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


223 


almost well now, but still she kept so strangely 
weak. Something within her seemed to have 
stopped and everything was an effort — even to 
think. 

She had not seen Livingston since he left the 
room on the day his former wife entered it, and 
until she sent for him she knew he would not 
come. She leaned back among her cushions 
and closed her eyes lest the tears with which 
their lashes were wet should fall upon her face. 
The others must not see and must not know of 
this fierce struggle in her heart and conscience. 
It was said that everybody had their cup to 
drink, and if that were true then surely one 
should not be forced to see the dregs in the cup 
of others, and she did not mean that they should 
know how bitter was the one that had been 
given her to drain. 

The house was very quiet. Inside, Elizabeth 
was busy with some work, and Joyce, who had 
driven down to the station to meet Portia, had 
waved her a merry good-by as she was lost to 
sight, and the air had seemed to grow suddenly 
still now that she was away. Joyce was so 
beautifully happy, so splendidly strong and vig- 
orous and radiant with life; and the one silver 
lining to the grayness of the past weeks had 
been her perfect surrender to Brydon. In the 
fall, perhaps, when the leaves would be turning 
yellow and red and brown, and the air would 
be crisp and cool, they would be married and 
go away ; go away to begin the new life which 


224 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


would be gay and brilliant, and which Joyce 
would adorn so well; and she was so glad for 
them, so very, very glad. 

Her lips quivered and her lashes grew heavy, 
but with an impatient little gesture she brushed 
them away quickly, and changed her position 
that she might better watch the sun as it sank in 
a radiance rich and warm and red behind the 
hills and lost itself in a quiver of changing 
glory. “To-morrow it will return and be lost to 
sight, and to-morrow again, and for an eternity 
of to-morrows, when my little life will have 
been spent and sunk into forgetfulness,” she 
thought; “and for the brief space of time that 
is given me, is it wise to cling to ideals, or 
should we let them go and be happy? Be 
happy? — would she be happy if she let them 
go?” 

The sound of horses’ hoofs upon the gravel 
startled her, and turning she waved her hand 
to Joyce and Portia and sat upright in her chair 
that they might not guess her utter weariness. 
The day had been a trying one for Portia she 
knew. In response to a pitiful appeal from 
Brydon she had gone in to see his mother, and 
the effort to conquer her objection to doing so 
had cost her a struggle, but in the end she had 
yielded, and for Brydon’s sake had gone. 

“And how is the invalid?” she asked cheer- 
fully, coming up to Virginia and taking her 
face between her hands. “Has the day been 
long, dear?” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


225 


“Very. Elizabeth is overcome, I think, try- 
ing to entertain me,” and Virginia laughed 
lightly as she returned Portia’s kiss. “But how 
is Aunt Agatha?” 

Portia took off her hat and threw it on a chair 
opposite, while she sat down in another and 
brushed her hair back from her forehead. 

“How is she? I hardly know, though I 
would not have believed it possible for any one 
to change as she has done. She cannot speak, 
you know ; but her right side is not affected, and 
she can write, and to see her effort to do so is 
pitiful beyond words. She is intensely nerv- 
ous, and the strain in her eyes never relaxes 
except when Brydon comes into the room, and 
then she begins to cry like a child. He is the 
only one who can manage her when she gets 
hysterical, for though he is very gentle and 
patient, he is at the same time positive, and the 
nurse says he can quiet her when everything else 
fails. Her helplessness enrages her, and her 
inability to talk puts her in a passion frequently. 
As yet she is by no means softened by her sick- 
ness, but in the end I believe it will bring her 
to her senses and touch the woman in her after 
a while.” 

Portia leaned back and looked at Joyce quiz- 
zically. 

“Her ruling passion will never die until she 
does — paralysis or apoplexy notwithstanding,” 
she continued, sighing slightly. “She wanted 
to know all about you to-day, Joyce; who you 


226 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


were, who your people were, where you came 
from, and various other things, and the biogra- 
phy I gave of you was most entertaining.” 

Joyce clasped her hands behind her head and 
laughed good-naturedly. 

“Why didn’t you tell her I put my credentials 
in a trust company when I became a working 
woman.” 

“Had she not been sick, I think I would ; but 
as it was I went back to the remotest period of 
American history and passed in review all of 
your ancestors I could remember. I also took 
occasion to tell her that you had given us real 
anxiety for fear you would not marry Brydon, 
who had been so patient and persistent in his 
efforts to marry you.” 

“Good for the old Mother Superior !” laughed 
Elizabeth. “I would have given many pennies 
to have seen her face when you made that little 
speech.” 

“It was funny,” and Portia smiled a little at 
the remembrance of her aunt’s expression. 
“But she wants to know you, Joyce, and I 
promised her I would ask you to go with me 
some day to see her.” 

Joyce shook her head slowly. 

“When she wants to do more than gratify 
her curiosity, and when she sends for me prop- 
erly, I may go ; otherwise, I don’t see the neces- 
sity. Were she not ill, she would have to come to 
me ; as it is, I suppose some day I may have to 
go to her. Still, there is no need to hurry,” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


227 


and she got up and started to go indoors. On 
the threshold she stopped a moment. “By the 
way, I met Mr. Livingston at the station,” she 
said, trying to speak carelessly. “He is going 
back to town to-night and is only out for a few 
hours. I asked him to come over,” — she twist- 
ed the roses in her belt nervously, — “but he de- 
clined. He doesn’t look very well.” 

Nobody spoke for a moment, and the silence 
was becoming painful, when Pleasants an- 
nounced supper, and directly it was over, Vir- 
ginia went to her room. 

She put on her wrapper and drew up a chair 
by the window. As yet there was no moon, 
but the sky was thickly gemmed with stars, and 
as she watched them she realized she was ap- 
pealing to them for light and strength and wis- 
dom — for the battle between her heart and con- 
science was waging bitterly to-night, and she 
knew the final test was about to be made. 

She had had one long, long talk with Portia — 
dear Portia! How hard she had tried to be 
honest and true to her own convictions, and yet 
tender and tolerant of what might perhaps be 
hers. She had not asked for advice, and Portia 
had not given it. They were each too indi- 
vidual to judge for the other, and Virginia 
knew then as she knew now, that she must settle 
this thing for herself. 

Joyce and Elizabeth had each spoken to her 
once concerning it, and she understood that, 


228 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


however she might decide, they would defend 
her position; but since their first talk the sub- 
ject had never been reopened. Hers was not a 
nature to speak freely or frequently of those 
things which touched her most strongly, for she 
was too sensitively organized to often bare her 
heart to others, and like Mary of old, the things 
to her which were richest and deepest and ten- 
derest, she hid in her heart and pondered them 
o’er and o’er. 

She could not go on like this, however; she 
must decide one way or the other. Something 
too was due Livingston. If only she could bear 
this burden alone ! 

For a long time she sat by the window, facing 
fearlessly every objection to, and defending 
bravely every argument for, her marriage to 
him, and finally, worn and spent by the un- 
answerableness of it all, she fell into a light 
sleep. For a while, just a little while, she slept, 
and presently she opened her eyes quietly as if 
awakened by the light of the moon which flood- 
ed the room and played full upon her face. 
She put her hands up as if to shut from her eyes 
its white radiance, and a sudden stillness seem- 
ed to have fallen on all the earth, and on her 
own heart as well. 

“God reigns, and Right is Right!” The 
words rang in her ears and filled her brain and 
throbbed in her heart. “God reigns, and Right 
is Right!” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


229 


She got up and steadied herself against the 
back of her chair. The light was getting 
brighter and brighter. She walked over to the 
bed and stood for a moment, then with a half 
sob she fell upon her knees and buried her face 
in her arms — “God reigns, and Right is Right !” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


Livingston lowered the light on the library 
table slightly, then touched the button in the 
wall. 

“I see a number of cards in the hall/’ he said 
to Thomas, who had come in answer to his 
ring. “Have they been left at night or during 
the day?” 

“Some at night and some in the day, sir,” 
answered Thomas. “The gentlemen generally 
stops to ask when you’ll be back, and whenever 
there’s any ladies they comes in them coaching 
parties which are very numerous these moon- 
light nights.” 

“Well, if any one should come to-night I’m 
to be excused — that’s all.” 

Thomas bowed and left, and Livingston, 
going back to the table, sat down in a deep chair 
near it and rested his head wearily upon its tall 
back, while with his fingers he drummed rest- 
lessly upon its arms. 

The strong, resolute look upon his face gave 
way gradually to one of baffled helplessness, 
and the pain and suffering in it, as he no longer 
controlled its expression, made it seem strange- 
ly white and worn. 


when love is love 


231 

After a while he took a letter from his pocket 
and opened it. He already knew it by heart, 
but he was not yet willing to admit its full 
meaning, and as he began to read it again there 
was a deep frown upon his forehead and his 
hands trembled slightly. 

“If this were only my pain, my suffering,” it 
began, “I could bear it more bravely, accept it 
more willingly ; but because it is yours also, be- 
cause you tell me that I am withholding happi- 
ness from you, I have been afraid of myself — 
afraid that I would yield to your love and mine. 
And yet, you would not have me come to you, 
came I not freely, gladly, joyously — and I can- 
not come to you in this way now. 

“How I have longed to come to you ! How 
I have wanted to push aside every barrier that 
keeps me from you, and come to you; yes, go 
with you to the ends of the earth, if you so 
wished, God only knows. And the struggle has 
been so sharp and horrible, so bitter and relent- 
less, that like a coward I have sometimes longed 
for death to end it and to blot out all remem- 
brance of it. 

“I could not be convinced at first that this 
sacrifice should be required of me ; this test be 
made of the principles which I have absorbed 
and accepted from childhood, but now that it 
has come, I dare not deny them nor refuse to 
accept my share of the burden which women 
must bear. 

“And since I have seen her, my heart has 
cried out more stubbornly than ever to come to 


232 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


you and show you what love is. Not self-love 
or selfish love, but love that is deep and un- 
dying — but I cannot come, I cannot come! I 
am laying bare my heart to you ; I am keeping 
back no thought in it, for its every throb is for 
you, and in yours it longs unutterably to hide 
itself and be at peace — but I must not be your 
wife. 

“You tell me I have no right to sacrifice your 
happiness and mine, and perhaps that is true. 
But neither have I the right to sacrifice those 
things which are greater than happiness and 
more eternal, for deeper than all law, and more 
powerful, is the conviction that it is required of 
a woman to guard the purity of her home; to 
preserve those institutions which protect it, and 
to recognize them as sacred and final, and I 
cannot rid myself of this conviction; I cannot 
shake it from my mind and heart. 

“It has seemed so short — my life — when I 
have thought of spending it with you, and ten 
thousand times ten thousand I have been tempt- 
ed to yield; and then — and then — because it is 
so short I dare not fail it. There will be lonely 
days, dark days, bitter days, when I, perhaps, 
shall cry out against the decision I am now 
making, and yet if our love be love it will stand 
all strain, endure all tests — if our love be love. 

“And now I am going to ask you a great 
something. You remember that I told you you 
must go away — because I loved you. I felt 
that night I had no right to love you ; that the 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


233 


woman who was once your wife still gave you 
her love and I dared not share it with her. 
Since then I have found out the nature of hers, 
and mine is of another sort, and what I would 
ask you is — can we be friends, dear friends and 
true ? Can we see each other ; share each 
other’s interests, get out of life much that it 
can give us, and put from us all that it cannot ? 
Can we be friends — just friends? 

“Perhaps I do not know what I am asking. 
Perhaps it is not womanly to ask it ; but to see 
you, to talk with you, would give me happiness 
that could come in no other way, and if I could 
give it to you I should be content with life. 
You are to be free, however; free to do what in 
the years to come may seem best to you. And 
now, if I am not asking too great a gift of you 
when I ask for your friendship, come to me and 
tell me that it may be mine — and believe me 
that through life and death and all eternity, I 
shall be always and forever yours. 

“Virginia/'' 

The letter dropped from Livingston’s hand, 
and mechanically he stooped and picked it up 
and put it again in his pocket. 

No — Virginia did not know what she was 
asking. No woman could know. He got up 
and began to walk restlessly backward and for- 
ward across the room. He was burning with 
rebellion, almost anger, at her decision, and he 
was not ready to submit to it. Why was it life 
mocked him with the mirage of happiness and 


234 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


never gave him happiness itself? Why should 
his love have been given so passionately, so 
overwhelmingly to one who would not become 
his wife, but who admitted so unreservedly her 
love for him? He had feared this from the 
first, but he had hoped to conquer her con- 
science by his will — and he had failed. 

There would be no use in arguing the matter 
with her. The processes by which she had 
reached her conclusion were of the kind a man 
could not readily understand, and she would 
baffle his arguments by the exercise of a faculty 
which sees through and beyond a thing, and 
which ignores the logical methods by which it 
is usually evaded. 

The strong, intuitive, spiritualizing forces of 
her nature made her recognize the truth and 
strip it of the sham sophistries with which it 
is so often shrouded ; and for her there could be 
only the acceptance of the naked fact that the 
penalty of broken moral laws, as the penalty of 
broken natural laws, must be endured, and the 
law not changed to lessen the penalty, but the 
penalty accepted to uphold the law. 

Such an acceptance was not Livingston’s 
point of view, however, and to him Virginia’s 
position in the matter was unreasonable, illogi- 
cal, and unnatural. At first he had thought 
that after a while she would come to see it dif- 
ferently ; would see the folly and foolishness of 
making both suffer for the sake of a standard 
the world was not ready to accept as being re- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 

quired of it — but now he knew that this would 
never be. 

And she had asked if they could not be 
friends. Friends ! When a man is starving, 
is he satisfied by the sight of food? Friends! 
Was he to spend his whole life waiting for the 
deliverance of death? Was he to be denied, 
perhaps forever, the close and dear comradeship 
of a wife and be content with the formalities of 
friendship ? 

And yet she had said if love be love it would 
stand all strain, endure all tests — if love be love. 

He stopped his walk and came back to the 
table and again sat down. Perhaps a woman’s 
love could stand all strain — but a man’s, could 
his? He buried his face in his arms as they 
rested on the table, and bit his teeth hard into 
his lips. Was his love less pure than hers, less 
enduring, less patient ? 

For a long time he sat thus and struggled 
with the temptation to go to her and plead his 
love and loneliness ; show her how illogical was 
her position; reason her out of her scruples; 
prove to her how strained was her conscience 
and how over-estimated her sense of duty. 
Should he go ? Should he refuse to accept her 
decision ; refuse to accept for her and for him- 
self the separation of the years to come, the 
denial of happiness and the emptiness of home 
when both their hearts cried out for it ? Should 
he go ? Should he go ? 

The stillness of the room became oppressive 
and he got up and walked out upon the porch 


236 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


at the side of the house. In the distance he 
could see the dim lights at Spinstervilla, and 
his heart softened as he realized how over there 
Virginia had struggled and suffered as he was 
doing now. The air blew fresh and fragrant, 
cooling the hot flush upon his face, and after a 
while his heart grew quieter. The influence of 
her spirit seemed to possess him, and instinc- 
tively he held out his arms toward the dim 
lights, and then dropped them quickly to his 
side again. 

From where he stood a good view of the 
beautiful grounds surrounding his own home 
could be had, and as his eyes swept carelessly 
over them, in his heart there was more bitter- 
ness than gratitude, for the moment, in what he 
saw, and a keen sense of his inability to do any- 
thing with all his wealth for the woman he so 
loved filled him with a renewed realization of 
impatient helplessness. 

For some time he walked up and down, 
watching the moon as it stole in and out of the 
clouds, now shedding a flood of light, now 
shrinking back under cover, now starting out 
bravely again, and he wondered if Virginia 
were watching it also. At the thought some- 
thing within him suddenly relaxed, and his 
throat grew full and tight — 

She had conquered. He would be her dear 
friend and true. He would accept her decision 
— to do otherwise would be but to torture her, 
and he must spare her pain, no matter what his 
own might be. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


237 


The hot rebellion that had possessed him 
when first he read her letter, gave way grad- 
ually to a quieter facing of what she asked ; and 
the realization of her love for him softened 
strangely the bitter pain and disappointment 
that had first surged over him, and after a while 
he went back into the library and once more 
took out her letter. For a moment he held it 
unsteadily toward the light, and then he kissed 
it again and again, as one does some dear, dead 
thing that is to belong forever to one’s past, and 
with eyes that saw not he drew toward him 
paper and pen. 

She had won. He would not urge her to 
marry him. The beautiful clear eyes must keep 
ever their unshadowed light, and she was right 
When love is love it will stand all strain, en- 
dure all tests — when love is love. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


Livingston’s answer to Virginia’s letter was 
as honest and frank as her own. 

“I cannot see this thing as you do, nor from 
your standpoint,” he wrote. “To me your 
position is strained and morbid in its severity, 
yet I do not question your sincerity, and I can 
only abide by your verdict. To say I accept it 
patiently would be untrue. It mocks me with 
my helplessness and galls me with its bitterness, 
and still my belief in you is so great that I 
know, if you could, you would spare me the 
suffering your decision causes. 

“Love was long in coming to me, but it has 
conquered me now that it has come, and for 
you I am ready to wait eternally. It pains me 
beyond words of telling to know I have caused 
you sorrow — I who would so gladly give you 
only the beautiful things of life — but you deny 
me the power, and my best evidence of yours is 
the acceptance of my limitations. 

“I am going away for a while. I shall have 
to fight this a little longer before I am sure of 
myself. Mine is no philosophic nature, and it 
does not readily adjust itself to inaction or de- 
feat; and until I can accept both properly, I 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


239 


shall stay away from you. You have given 
me that which I am most unworthy of — your 
love; and life has been new and strangely 
sweet since you confessed it. But more, ten 
thousand times more, do I now want you for 
my wife that I may prove to you the unutter- 
ableness of a love that would spend and be spent 
for you. And yet, since that is denied me, I 
would not have you think me ungrateful for the 
measure of happiness that will still be mine. 
That you will let me see you, come to you, be 
with you, is a greater privilege than I deserve, 
perhaps, but I pledge my patience as proof of 
my appreciation. When I come back I shall 
have won — or I will not come back. I shall 
win, however, and whatever else you forget in 
life, you are forever to remember that between 
you and the world is ever and always your dear 
friend and true, 

“Jonathan Livingston/' 

For days Virginia carried this letter next to 
her heart, carried it there because it so hurt and 
so thrilled her. The difference in their point 
of view made a barrier between them which tol- 
erance, not sympathy it seemed, must bridge, 
and the realization of this cut deeply. But his 
acceptance of her decision stirred her with a 
passionate sense of the depth of his love and of 
his powerful effort to control and govern it; 
and she realized anew that she was putting 
away from her the supremest gift she could ask 
of life. 


240 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


After a while there came another letter, dated 
somewhere beyond the Rockies, and telling of 
some fresh experiences on a ranch he had long 
owned but never visited, and the tone of it was 
as natural as if such letters were a daily matter. 
He had been in the saddle, save when he ate and 
slept, almost continually since he had reached 
the place, and the air and exercise had done him 
good. 

“Every now and then,” he wrote, “something 
within me rebels at too much civilization, and 
I am compelled to get out for a breath of fresh 
air. I will be back in a week perhaps. My 
accumulated energy has been pretty well work- 
ed off and I am ready again for the require- 
ments of society, though I’m afraid it’s only a 
grudging readiness. A dress-coat, after a few 
months, has a habit of stifling me, and yet I 
admit the necessity of the coat.” 

There was no word of other things, only a 
cheerful running account of the day’s doings; 
but through it all Virginia read much that the 
others did not see, and she waited his coming 
with an indefinable mixture of joy and dread. 

In an hour after he reached Hampstead he 
was at Spinstervilla, and his greeting to all was 
the frank and friendly one of old, and appar- 
ently the thread was taken up as if it had never 
been dropped. But late in the evening, when 
at last he found himself alone with Virginia, he 
turned to her and took her hands in his and 
looked her gravely in the face. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


241 


“It is all right,” he said quietly, after a 
moment of understanding silence that was dan- 
gerously sweet to both. “You have won and 
now you need never fear I shall forget. Until 
you bid me come I shall stay where you have 
placed me, but to-night we must say some 
things we could not write.” 

Late they sat and talked, and once more they 
unreservedly bared their hearts that they might 
the more bravely close them again to a love they 
must not flourish but could not kill, and when 
at last he said good-night she did not withhold 
herself from him, for she knew his kisses were 
those of renunciation, not possession, and she 
would not deny him or herself the bitter-sweet 
of such a parting. 

After that the naturalness of other days was 
resumed and his visits adjusted themselves to 
the basis to which they were to belong, and life 
at Spinstervilla moved on easily and quietly 
once more. The experiences of the weeks that 
were past had made their impress, however, and 
each understood that currents had been stirred 
that would never move again in the old way, 
and for a time at least each refused to look into 
the future which held they hardly knew what. 

It was Brydon who forced them to face it 
after a while, and to his great delight he found 
in Virginia his staunchest ally. Between them 
they decided that Joyce should be married in 
October, and with an assumed masterfulness 


242 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


that was trying, he so informed her. They had 
been talking of Mr. Livingston’s return and 
Brydon had sighed curiously. 

“This is a queer old world, Joycie,” he said, 
turning to her rather abruptly ; “and nine-tenths 
of its queerness is caused by women.” 

Joyce looked up indignantly. 

“Such an Adamesque remark! I suppose in 
this case Virginia is entirely to blame for Mr. 
Livingston’s marriage and its unhappy termi- 
nation.” 

“The termination wasn’t unhappy,” laughed 
Brydon, patting her hands cheerfully. “That 
was the only happy thing about it. I don’t 
suppose Virginia was to blame in this particular 
case, but on general principles a woman just 
naturally gives trouble. You’ve done your 
share yourself, my lady,” and he looked at her 
doubtfully, then kissed her full upon her lips 
before she could reply. 

After a while he drew a little calendar from 
his pocket, and striking a match, scrutinized it 
closely, then as he threw the match away he 
put the calendar back with a comical little 
grimace. 

“One month and twenty-seven days from to- 
day,” he said vaguely. “To-day is the six- 
teenth ; that leaves fifteen more days in August, 
thirty in September, and twelve in October. 
Fifty-seven days in all. A regular little eter- 
nity yet.” 

Joyce looked at him questioningly. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


243 


“What are you talking about, Brydon? 
Sometimes I’m really afraid you’re losing your 
mind. What is fifty-seven days from to-day ?” 

“Your wedding day,” answered Brydon 
promptly. “Didn’t you know you were to be 
married about the twelfth of October?” 

“No, I didn’t; and I’m not. Of course I’m 
not — why, I couldn’t. I haven’t begun to do 
a thing. I haven’t even bought a handker- 
chief,” and her face flushed warmly in the dark- 
ness of their little corner of the porch. 

“Will lend you some of mine — besides, they 
sell handkerchiefs in London. We’ll have to 
get married about the twelfth, Joyce — we will 
really, for I’ll be in trouble if we don’t.” He 
brought his chair a little closer to hers. 

“I intended to tell you before, but you haven’t 
given me a chance. I engaged passage to-day 
on one of the North German Lloyd ships for 
the twelfth of October, and it would be a pity to 
lose the tickets and all that — and you wouldn’t 
make me do it really, would you ?” He moved 
his chair nearer still. 

“You’ve engaged passage for the twelfth of 
October ? Now I know you’ve lost your mind.” 
And she looked at him with doubt and dismay 
in every line of her face. 

Brydon laughed joyously. 

“I knew you’d put it off until January if I 
didn’t do something final, so to-day I went 
down and got booked for the twelfth. You’re 
going to agree, aren’t you, Joyce?” And this 


244 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


time there was genuine anxiety lest after all she 
might refuse. 

“But what made you do it?” she asked doubt- 
fully, evading his question. “What on earth 
made you do it?” 

“Couldn’t help it, just had to do something — 
get something — begin on something. I 
thought first I’d go and see the minister, and 
then I knew he was out of town; and besides 
you hadn’t told me whether there was any one 
else you would rather have ; so instead I thought 
I’d go down and see about tickets to go some- 
where. It struck me you might like to run 
over to London and Paris and a few other 
places, so I settled it then and there, and now 
we’ll have to go really ; and you don’t mind, do 
you, dear?” 

The boyish eagerness in his voice made her 
laugh in spite of herself. 

“I think it’s rather crazy, but it sounds deli- 
cious.” She paused and looked at him with a 
dubious little pucker. “Do you mean we are 
going just by ourselves — just you and I?” 

“People usually go that way on their bridal 
trips. Any objection to going just with me?” 

She shook her head slowly. 

“No — but I thought it would be so nice if 
the others could go too. Don’t you think it 
would be nice if the others could go too, Bry- 
don?” 

“No, I don’t,” and his chair was given 
another jerk. “This little journey we’re to 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


245 


take by our lonesomes, and if you invite any 
one to join us, as the head of the family I shall 
recall the invitation.” 

Joyce laughed. 

“No need to worry. Elizabeth says we’re a 
terrible strain as it is, and I’m sure, now I think 
of it, no one of them would go.” 

Brydon tilted his chair back again. 

“I guess it must be pretty trying,” and he 
laughed also. “Elizabeth declares she keeps a 
little bell in her pocket ready to ring at all dark 
corners, but I told her not to bother, we didn’t 
mind.” 

About the twelfth of October it was to be 
then, and rather to the surprise of all Joyce in- 
sisted that the wedding should be a very quiet 
one, and beyond deciding on the list of those 
she wished present, all other details she left for 
the rest to arrange. 

“Who was it said women were so unexpect- 
able?” asked Elizabeth one day, putting down 
a piece of lawn she was hemstitching and let- 
ting her hands rest idly in her lap for a moment. 
“Here’s Joyce, who all her life has intended, 
no doubt, to have a big church marriage, with 
orange blossoms and satin gown and brides- 
maids galore, and broken-down aristocrats and 
a vested choir, and all the rest of the nonsense 
usual on such occasions, very calmly deciding, 
now it is time to act, that she will have nothing 
of the kind. Surely woman is the enigma yet 
unguessed.” 


246 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Virginia smiled slightly. 

“Oh, there’ll be some of the things. The 
long train and satin gown, and a few of the 
broken-down aristocrats. By the way, did 
Joyce show you Aunt Agatha’s last letter ?” 

Elizabeth nodded. 

“I said once that I’d like that old lady to have 
a grand tumble, but I didn’t mean one of the 
kind she’s had, and I’m as sorry for her as any 
of you, but I don’t envy Joyce being her daugh- 
ter-in-law. The old Adam in her dies hard 
sure. Her body is pretty badly damaged, but 
her nerve is as strong as ever. Her letter was 
an evidence of it, and she has no idea of being 
retired even if she can’t walk or talk, and now 
that she’s decided to accept Joyce, she’s going 
to blow her trumpet well for her.” 

Virginia smiled again. 

“Poor Aunt Agatha! The things of the 
world appeal very strongly to her, and it has 
been a bitter blow for Brydon to marry a pretty 
pauper, as she calls Joyce. Now that she sees 
resistance is useless, however, she has gone over 
with her usual disregard to any former opinions 
held or expressed. Since, too, she has found 
out that Joyce’s ancestry is a little older and 
more distinguished than even her own, she is 
getting ready to welcome her into her little 
world as if she were a princess who had been 
living in disguise for reasons of state and had 
just been discovered by her son.” 

Elizabeth got up and put her work away 
carefully. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Hi 


“She’s a crafty old lady — that aunt of yours, 
and she knows just when to trim her sails, but 
I wish she had written Joyce a little more 
mother-like letter, nevertheless.” 

Virginia’s face shadowed. 

“The mother-heart has never been in Aunt 
Agatha, and one cannot give what one does not 
possess. Life will not be all rose-strewn for 
Joyce in her new home, but if any one on earth 
is ever able to manage that aunt of mine, it will 
be Joyce. She will be good to her, but she will 
take no nonsense from her, and as soon as that 
is realized there will be no trouble I guess.” 

She put down her book and went to the piano 
and ran her hands idly over the keys. In her 
eyes there was a far-away look, and Elizabeth, 
seeing it, went out quietly and left her alone as 
she began to play softly that which was contin- 
ually in her heart — a song without words. 


CHAPTER XXV 


Nature’s gift to Joyce’s wedding day was a 
lavish outpouring of all that goes not only to 
make a perfect present but a beautiful memory, 
and for years after every detail of it stood out 
pitilessly in Virginia’s brain. 

The trees and shrubs, freshened by the show- 
ers of the day before, glowed and glistened in 
the sun which shone with a dazzling radiance. 
The air, cool and clear and crisp, was full of 
the mystical meaning which belongs to this sea- 
son of the year’ and which quickens life into 
fresh courage and vigor; and for Joyce and 
Brydon, at least, the future seemed to stretch 
out into only happy possibilities as they stood 
upon its threshold before beginning together 
the little journey which hereafter was to be 
made hand-in-hand. 

Inside, the house was filled with the flowers 
and foliage which Joyce loved best, great boxes 
of which had come from the old Southern 
home, sent by those who loved her but who 
could not be present. But among those who 
did come were her uncle, General Calvert, and 
his wife and daughter; and what pleased and 
touched her most, they had brought with them 


WHEJi LOVE IS LOVE 


249 


her deaf old rector. He had married her 
parents and had buried those whom she loved 
most on earth, and when in reply to Brydon’s 
letter he had written he would gladly come, 
Joyce had gone away for a little while, for her 
eyes were wet with tears. 

“It is almost next to having mother,” she had 
whispered to Virginia; “and one does so long 
to have their mother on their wedding day.” 

From the city were a few of the friends they 
had made during the years of their work and 
study there, and who were dear to them, but 
most of those present were Brydon’s guests; 
and just where to draw the line with these had 
been a sore struggle to all. 

“But my hand is nearly ruined with hand- 
shaking,” he had protested gloomily to Portia, 
“and a fellow feels like a dog when he’s con- 
gratulated continually and yet knows he can’t 
say a word about coming out. I’m my mother’s 
son, but I’m not exclusive; and think of the 
presents that have been sent,” and he almost 
groaned. “I can’t understand why everybody 
is so confoundedly kind and wishes me such 
luck and happiness,” he went on. “Even 
mother has changed and seems anxious to do 
something. You know of course that she has 
sent Joyce her entire collection of diamonds?” 

Portia nodded. 

“She is not going to wear them, however. 
She will wear no jewels save her mother’s wed- 
ding pearls, which have been worn for several 


250 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


generations I believe; but she appreciates this 
gift from your mother very much.” 

Brydon sighed slightly. 

“Yes, I suppose it cost an effort to give them 
up. It is giving up at the same time all hope 
of ever wearing them again I imagine. She is 
coming to the wedding, however. She persists 
in risking it, and I’m afraid to oppose her.” 

“It may not hurt her,” Portia answered. 
“She is easily moved, and her heart seems 
strangely set on coming.” 

They glanced at each other understanding^ 
for a moment, and then began to talk of some- 
thing else. 

To no one had Brydon ever spoken of the 
scene with his mother on the night she was 
paralyzed, and only once had it been referred to 
between them. 

For some time after her improvement had 
become permanent he noticed she was restless 
and ill at ease with him, and at last came a day 
when she resisted no longer, but beckoning to 
him made him sit beside her. After a few 
minutes she began to write, and then she burst 
into a pitiful weeping and clung to him in a 
passion of sobs and tears. He looked at the 
tablet and saw the words, “I am sorry,” and he 
had understood instantly. He had soothed her 
gently and as if she were a little child, and 
talked to her of Joyce and of his marriage, and 
had asked her if she would like him to bring 
Joyce to see her, and she had nodded eagerly. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


251 


After that she wanted to know each day some- 
thing about the wedding, and herself had writ- 
ten to Joyce asking her to come to her. 

It was, as Elizabeth said, more a summons 
than a request, however, and Joyce had smiled 
over it; but for Brydon’s sake she had gone, 
and from her first visit there had been a com- 
plete surrender on his mother’s part to the girl 
whom indeed she would never call daughter, 
but whom she welcomed with an eagerness the 
others could not understand. 

Only to Portia had her aunt given some idea 
of her former intense opposition to Brydon’s 
choice of a wife, and of the bitterness it had 
caused her. But when, with one of those 
whimsical reactions which are sometimes pecu- 
liar to her sex, she had veered sharply in the 
opposite direction, she seemed to entirely forget 
her previous attitude, and demanded of her 
former followers a most cordial reception of 
her future daughter-in-law. 

Not to be present at her son’s marriage might 
indicate disapproval, and as she had accepted it, 
she was quite determined that her little world 
should do so too, and to go she was fully 
decided. 

Afterwards the day seemed like a dream, a 
joyous dream with a minor chord vibrating 
through it, but whatever may have filled her 
heart, there was no shadow on Virginia’s face. 

“One’s wedding day should be all beautiful,” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


252 

she had declared. “One dates everything from 
it afterwards, and Joyce must remember this 
always, always, as the most splendid of her 
life.” 

After it was over, and for years thereafter, 
there stood out in her mind a picture, vivid and 
lovely, but its every remembrance was a thrill 
of pain mixed strangely with a throb of joy. 

Joyce was superb in her wedding gown of 
ivory satin. Her head was held splendidly 
high and straight, and her responses were as 
dear and firm as Brydon’s; and facing them 
was her dear old rector, whose snow-white hair 
and quivering voice, and figure slightly bent, 
was a sharp contrast to the freshness and youth 
before him. Next to Brydon stood Livingston, 
white, but well in hand, while close to Joyce 
stood Virginia, holding her flowers, but feeling 
herself a separate, distinct creature who a few 
minutes before had been laughing and talking 
and in a few minutes more would be laughing 
and talking again ; but in reality it was not her- 
self who was doing this, it was somebody else — 
somebody else ! 

Just back of Joyce stood her uncle, who put 
her hand in Brydon’s when he gave her away, 
and near him was his wife. Close by stood 
Portia and Elizabeth, and Laurie and Irving, 
and magnificently gowned, though in an in- 
valid’s chair, was Brydon’s mother. 

Grouped here and there were the friends who 
loved them best, and in the door-way stood 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


253 


Martha and Pleasants. Somewhere in the dis- 
tance there was music, which seemed to be 
breathing out softly the promise of faithful and 
true, and over and over to Virginia the minister 
was saying, “If any man can show just cause 
why they may not be lawfully joined together, 
let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold 
his peace.” Why did he not go on? There was 
no cause why Joyce and Brydon should not be 
joined together. 

Outside a bird was singing cheerily, splitting 
its little throat as if to add its share of melody 
to the music indoors, and then suddenly the air 
had grown sickening and the minister’s voice 
had sounded far away. After a while it was 
over, and Joyce had her flowers again and they 
were crowding around her with their kisses 
and congratulations, and Virginia was wonder- 
ing how she could get away if only for a 
moment, when she felt some one touch her arm, 
and in response to his nod she slipped off un- 
noticed with Livingston. 

He pushed her in a chair and closed the 
dining-room door, then hurriedly held a glass 
of wine to her lips. 

“It should not have been required of us,” he 
said bitterly, looking at her anxiously. “Are 
you better?” 

She nodded slowly. 

“I’m all right. We must go back to the 
others.” 


2 54 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


She brushed the hair from her face absently, 
then shook herself impatiently. 

“Fm a child,” she said. “Come — we must 
go back.” 

The last guest had gone and quiet reigned 
once more in the little household, and then came 
Brydon’s cable. “Arrived safely — will be 
home for Christmas.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


The more than cordial welcome which 
Portia’s last book had received pleased her, 
naturally, and the future seemed to promise for 
her an abiding place in literature. But more 
and more did she shrink from the publicity 
which her reputation threatened to force upon 
her, and it was with a peculiar sense of relief 
that she accepted the decision of Elizabeth and 
Virginia to stay at Spinstervilla until after the 
holidays, at least. 

To Livingston also this was a source of gen- 
uine pleasure. His dependence upon the home 
life he found there; upon the absence of the 
restlessness and artificiality he found so much 
of elsewhere was greater than he himself under- 
stood, and when his nights were spent at Hamp- 
stead, his evenings first were always given to 
Spinstervilla. He was true to his word, how- 
ever. He did not presume upon the privilege 
Virginia had given him, and while in their long 
walks and long, quiet talks they spoke of all 
things else, there was one chapter in life they 
kept continually closed. 

Virginia’s interest in and knowledge of many 
of the things that keenly interested him had 


256 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


been a source of ever-widening delight; and as 
the weeks went by he found himself continually 
turning to her in a comradeship that was stimu- 
lating to a degree he hardly dared to indulge. 
His love for her was absolute, but its freshness 
and vitality were constantly quickened by the 
demand she made upon his respect for her quick 
comprehension of many of the things he had 
not supposed a woman would be specially in- 
terested in or informed about; and more and 
more he had grown to feel the necessity of dis- 
cussing with her every phase of the work into 
which he had plunged so determinedly in the 
city. 

Virginia had anticipated the value of this 
necessity, and knowing she must give to 
another side of his nature the intellectual com- 
radeship he craved only less strongly than he 
craved her love, she had met it by strengthening 
the already quick sympathy between them in 
taste and temperament and many points of 
view, by a broad and comprehensive under- 
standing and appreciation of what interested 
and appealed to him particularly, and the result 
had been a happy one for both. 

“A man who simply abuses his city, and 
never lifts his hand to help it, or his influence 
to better it, is no man — he’s a coward,” she had 
said one day; “and you men at the club who 
only smoke and sneer and shrug your shoulders 
ought to have your rights of citizenship taken 
from you.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


257 


She had said it to Irving and Brydon, who 
were discussing a sensational municipal matter 
that was filling the papers at the time, and the 
discussion had led her into saying much that 
showed a broader and deeper knowledge of 
such subjects than Livingston had imagined 
she possessed. Not for some time afterwards 
did he understand how she had been led into 
the study of these subjects, and his discovery 
surprised him greatly. 

He had noticed in the library a small but 
exceedingly well-selected collection of books 
bearing on Economics and Sociology, and one 
day, opening one, he found written within, “To 
Virginia from Robert Stone.” He put it down 
and opened another, and another, and in each 
were the same words written. 

He knew Stone well ; knew him also as one 
of the rising political economists of the day, but 
that Virginia knew him he had never heard. 
The perplexed look on his face as he held one of 
the books amused her and she held out her 
hand. 

“Which is it?” she asked. “Oh, one of 
Robert’s own. I never told you about Robert, 
did I?” 

Livingston shook his head. 

“I did not know you knew him. He’s the 
most promising and practical man in his line 
to-day. Did he give you all of these ?” and he 
swept his hand over the entire shelf. 

“Every one, and I value them more than any 
of my books because he taught me how to un- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


258 

derstand them. His youngest sister and I were 
classmates at college/’ she explained, “and sev- 
eral times I visited her during the holidays or 
vacations, and though Robert was years older 
than I, he was lovely to me, and we have been 
good friends, notwithstanding — ” 

She stopped abruptly, and her face flushed 
red and warm, and Livingston seeing it looked 
at her gravely. 

“Was he in love with you?” 

She put down the book in her hand and 
began to look carefully for another. 

“That isn’t exactly a fair question, is it?” 
and the color died slowly out of her face. 

“I beg your pardon,” he answered quickly; 
“I should not have asked it.” 

She handed him the book for which she had 
been looking. 

“That is my dear friend,” and she touched it 
almost lovingly. “I was always, even as a 
child, fond of the things it tells about, and 
Robert found it out one day and told me what 
to read, and gave me the books you see here. 
He would talk to me about his own views con- 
cerning them, and then later, as I grew older 
and began to observe life in all its phases more 
closely, and saw how splendidly great and how 
pitifully weak humanity was, I found myself 
theorizing too much, and doing too little and 
knowing too little at first hand, and then it was 
I began to go in and out among the poor. 
What I learned then was more valuable than 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


259 


anything I have ever learned in books, and 
while I still go back to them for the pleasure 
and help they give me, I know the problems that 
are vexing the world to-day will never be solved 
by pen and ink. They must be solved by men 
and women — and the grace of God.” 

Livingston looked at her curiously. She 
had always been to him the most perfect em- 
bodiment of the womanly woman he had ever 
seen, the most intensely refined and high-bred 
in looks and bearing, and yet he knew few men 
whose views were so advanced and whose opin- 
ions so well formed on all the social, industrial, 
religious and political questions of the day as 
were hers. This side of her nature he had not 
found out at once. She rarely showed it unless 
the occasion justified it, and she rarely talked 
about the things which most interested her ex- 
cept with some one who felt that they were as 
vitally important as she did, and who took them 
as seriously, and yet with temperate judgment 
and a saving sense of humor. 

That she had been trained, or rather her 
natural taste developed, by another man, and 
such a man as Robert Stone, was a discovery 
by no means to Livingston’s liking. Ever since 
he had realized the fullness of his love for 
Virginia he had been conscious that he was 
strongly jealous of all that had previously filled 
her life. And though it was a weakness for 
which he hated himself, he nevertheless had not 
yet been able to conquer it altogether, and the 


26 o 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


knowledge that she knew it sometimes surged 
over him, though he apparently gave no sign. 

He knew Stone well ; had met him frequently 
abroad, and the memory of a conversation they 
had had together one night on the deck of their 
ship as they were crossing the Mediterranean 
came over him sharply. Had Stone meant 
Virginia when he said what he did? 

He put the book down on the table, then 
came over to the mantel, and leaning against it 
looked at her intently. 

“It is queer you have never mentioned Stone 
to me,” he said slowly. “I know him very well 
and admire no man more.” 

Virginia turned in surprise. 

“You really know Robert?” she asked in 
amazement; “and have never told me before?” 

They looked at each other and then both 
laughed. 

“If you know him you’ll be interested in the 
letter I had from him yesterday,” and this time 
the color in Virginia’s face deepened into a 
happy flush. “He is to be married next month 
to a girl he’s known all his life, and I am just 
as delighted to know it as the girl herself, I 
guess, for no one deserves happiness more than 
Robert.” 

Livingston’s forehead wrinkled a little skep- 
tically. 

“I hope he’ll get it, but these discoveries of 
love after years of friendship are apt to be 
tame.” He held out his hand to say good- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


26l 


night. “Love comes so differently, however/’ 
he continued after a moment’s pause, “that one 
cannot judge its effect or influence on another. 
To some it is a gradual awakening, to others an 
instant recognition. I think I prefer the latter. 
Good-night.” 

November came in beautifully. Clear and 
cold and bracing, the air was a tonic to mind 
and body and sent the blood in joyous thrills 
through veins and heart. No two trees were 
alike in their gorgeous garments of flaming 
yellow and sober brown, of rich reds and dull 
greens, and each seemed anxious to flaunt its 
glory before being overcome by relentless win- 
ter. The earth was hardening and the hedges 
dropping their drapery, and the sky at sunset 
broke daily into a constantly changing bril- 
liance before it faded into darkness, and to Vir- 
ginia it was all wonderful and beautiful. Sud- 
denly the sky clouded, however, and the wind 
blew shrill and high and the leaves shivered and 
fell under the blight of frost, and she knew the 
summer was ended, the season over. 

Bravely she tried to put from her the bitter- 
ness it had brought and to remember only its 
dear brightness, but it was no easy thing to do. 
The days that were gone had made a sharp 
dividing line in her life, and henceforth it could 
never be the same again. She did not let her- 
self think of a future. In her heart she called 
herself one of the children of Israel, and tried 


262 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


to believe she could live day by day and not 
dream of the years that might or might not be ; 
but no one, not even Portia or Livingston, knew 
how fierce was the fight or how bitter the pain 
that sometimes swept over her. 

For some little time past a new fear had been 
troubling her also ; a fear almost intangible, and 
yet that threatened to grow into all sorts of 
possibilities. Several times since Brydon’s 
marriage she had received copies of papers with 
certain articles marked in them, and the articles 
always had reference to Livingston’s former 
wife. She had never mentioned these articles 
to Livingston — to have done so would not have 
been wise, for while he refused to in any way 
recognize her existence and was indifferent to 
her actions in regard to himself, he would have 
tolerated nothing that might in the least annoy 
Virginia, and knowing this, she very quietly 
burned the papers received and spoke to no one 
of them. 

That Mrs. Grey was leading a gay and bril- 
liant life in the city, she knew very well; and 
knew also that among a certain set she was fast 
becoming the toast of the town, but in a strange 
way she learned some other things about her, 
and from a source as unexpected as it was au- 
thentic. 

For several years it had been her habit to 
visit, during the winter, a certain hospital, and 
when possible sing for some of the patients, and 
it was during one of these visits that she heard 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


263 


her name called softly as she was passing a bed 
in one of the wards. She stopped, and the girl 
lying upon it held her hand out feebly. 

“Are you the Miss Deming — Miss Virginia 
Deming — Mrs. Grey hates so?” she whispered 
tremblingly and with a look of terror in her 
eyes as she asked the question. “Are you the 
one?” 

Virginia smiled slightly. 

“I am Virginia Deming,” she answered ; “but 
I did not know that Mrs. Grey hated me.” 

The sick girl pulled her down closer to the 
bed. 

“Well, she does ; she hates you so she would 
like to see you dead. I know you think I’m out 
of my head to be telling you this, but I’m not. 
Fve seen you before, and I want to warn you. 
Don’t have anything to do with her — she’s a 
devil, a beautiful devil, and I wish to God she 
were dead herself !” 

The girl began to cry hysterically, and Vir- 
ginia, forgetting what had been told her in her 
effort to quiet her, learned that she was, or had 
been before her illness, Mrs. Grey’s maid, and 
learned also that she was smarting under the 
sense of injury and neglect and indifference 
which had been shown her by her former mis- 
tress since she had been at the hospital, and that 
her heart was very bitter toward her. 

She would let her talk but little that after- 
noon, but on subsequent visits she learned much 
that she had never known before, and what she 


264 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


learned did not add to her peace of mind re- 
garding the stand she had taken toward Liv- 
ingston. 

“I was with her when she married Mr. Liv- 
ingston,” the girl Charlotte told her. “And it 
was on account of me that they had their first 
quarrel. It was on the ship going over. Mrs. 
Grey got mad because I couldn’t find something 
she wanted, and she cursed me for being so 
stupid. Mr. Livingston reproved her and she 
answered him back sharp, and for a few min- 
utes there were hot words, and he left the room, 
and she had to apologize to me before he would 
make up with her again. 

“She thought at first because he had married 
her that she could twist him like the rest, but 
she soon found out she was wrong. He stuck 
by his bargain as faithful as any human being 
could be expected to, but it was hell to him, and 
when she persisted in doing what he told her 
must stop, he quit, and God in heaven couldn’t 
blame him for doing it. 

“It nearly set her crazy, his leaving her. She 
didn’t believe it for some time, and then when 
she failed to bring him back there were scenes 
on scenes. He was the only man she had ever 
known that she was afraid of, and she loved 
him too. I don’t believe he ever thought she 
loved him, but she did. She loved him like a 
tigress, and she has always been as jealous as 
a cat of him. Hers wasn’t a good love though. 
She wanted to conquer him, and make him 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


265 


adore her, as some of the other men had said 
they did ; but he wasn’t a man to talk about eye- 
brows and lips and beautiful hair all the time, 
and she didn’t know how to talk about anything 
but body things, and she saw her mistake when 
it was too late. 

“She isn’t always a wicked woman. She’s 
kind-hearted and generous when the mood is 
on her, and she never really cares for men 
except to flatter and admire and wait on her. 
She knows, too, just how far to go; but at that 
time she thought she could do just as she 
pleased, and she wanted to be considered the 
most beautiful woman in Paris, and the best 
gowned ; and she wanted to lead everything and 
everybody, and if you got in her way she would 
step on you sure.” 

The sick girl turned on her side and looked 
up into Virginia’s face intently. 

“Mrs. Grey knows he loves you,” she said 
after a moment, “and she hates you worse than 
the Devil hates a monk. When she heard Mr. 
Livingston had come back to this country she 
was as restless as the wind to get here too. She 
always kept up with him somehow, and as long 
as he stayed in any of the foreign countries, 
traveling or hunting, or writing, she didn’t 
seem to mind so much; but she was afraid he 
would marry if he came back here, and he 
hadn’t been back two months before she was 
here also. She soon found out about you, and 
when she learned you were sick, she locked the 


266 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


nurse up and took her clothes. I was sorry for 
you, for I didn’t know what she might do if 
the notion struck her/’ 

“But why did she get the divorce from Mr. 
Livingston?” interrupted Virginia, ignoring 
the reference to her sickness. “If she loved 
him, why did she bring suit for divorce ?” 

“I never did understand exactly,” the girl 
answered, nervously brushing a wisp of hair 
from her eyes. “I think it was pique or anger 
perhaps. She waited three years, and as she 
never heard from him except through his law- 
yers, I think she got in one of her mad spells, 
and thought she would show her independence. 
In her heart she didn’t think he would agree to 
it, but would come back to her; and when he 
didn’t and said he would give in addition to his 
settlement a large sum of money if she would 
take her maiden name, she made the air hot. 
Even her mother couldn’t stand her that day. 
She pretended that she got the divorce to marry 
somebody else, but I don’t believe she ever 
meant it for a moment. She knew too well 
that would kill all chance of her ever getting at 
Mr. Livingston again^and that’s what she 
wants — the only thing she can’t get.” 

Virginia’s hand was resting on the bed, and 
the sick girl touched it timidly with her fingers 
and then pressed it with swift eagerness. 

“If he really loves you,” she cried in a low 
tone, though her voice was trembling with ex- 
citement, “keep him from her. Don’t let him 


WHEN love is love 


267 


ever go back. She has a way of tricking men, 
of making them lose their heads, and she is 
determined to conquer him yet. He was kind 
to me when every one else was cruel, and I 
wanted to warn him, but I didn’t know what 
to do.” 

The girl was shaking as if with a chill, and 
Virginia, seeing she was strangely wrought up, 
leaned over her and quieted her gently, rubbing 
the cold, trembling hands in her warm ones and 
smoothing the tumbled hair softly until she was 
herself again. And then she told her it would 
all be right, that Mr. Livingston would never 
go back, and that Mrs. Grey would realize after 
a while the foolishness of trying to make him 
do so. 

“But you do not know her,” protested the 
girl, still holding Virginia’s hands tightly. 
“You do not know her. I’ve lived with her for 
nine years, and slaved for her, and she’s let me 
lie here like a dog, and never once remembered 
I am still living. She paid me well and I stayed 
on because I had an old mother to provide for ; 
but mother is dead now, and I will never go 
back to her — never, never!” 

The girl began to shiver again, and Virginia, 
seeing there was a deep bitterness in her heart 
against her former mistress, began to talk of 
something else; of Spinstervilla, and how they 
had been looking for some one to come out and 
do some sewing for them; and how when she 
was well and strong again it would be just the 


268 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


place for her. And the sick girl, listening with 
straining eyes and quivering lips, thrilled with 
sudden warmth, for she knew the sewing was 
only a pretext, and that Virginia was holding 
out the hope of rest and quiet, of air and sun- 
shine, and what most of all she needed, the 
strong, human interest of some one who be- 
lieved she was made of flesh and blood and had 
a heart in her bosom, even though she was but 
a lady’s maid. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


The spirit of Christmas was in bone and 
blood and air, and at Spinstervilla it was being 
most energetically cultivated. 

“The only time I wish I were the mother of 
a dozen children is at Christmas,” said Eliza- 
beth, measuring a piece of pink muslin and then 
reaching out to get a doll from the number by 
which she was surrounded. “When I get rich 
I am going to borrow an orphan asylum some 
Christmas and keep it for a week, then return 
it, and go South to recuperate.” 

Portia laughed slightly. 

“If you and Virginia continue to discover 
new cases, you’ll have to employ some one be- 
sides Charlotte to help you get ready for them.” 

“And you ? — you do more than Virginia and 
myself together, only you keep quiet about it.” 

Portia shook her head protestingly. 

“You are mistaken, dear; but did Virginia 
show you the check received this morning from 
Joyce for the children?” 

Elizabeth nodded, her mouth full of pins, 
which she took out one by one. 

“Indeed she did,” she answered as soon as 
she could speak. “Bless her dear old heart! 


270 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Thus far her riches haven’t spoiled her. It was 
such a nice fat check too. We’re going to use 
it for the day out here.” 

“It’s a great work you’re undertaking. Are 
you sure you can eet it through ?” 

“Sure. We won’t bring but fifty, though I’d 
like to make it five hundred. Mr. Livingston 
is to furnish the sleighs and take them on a 
grand sleigh-ride. We’re to furnish the dinner, 
and Joyce’s check is to bring them out and buy 
something nice for each to be put on the tree. 
She’ll be here, you know, and it will be as jolly 
for us as the children.” 

“Have you decided on the children?” and 
Portia, who was also busily sewing on the dolls’ 
garments, reached out for more muslin. “And 
do you think you can limit the number to fifty ? 
You must not forget the Pettigrew boys, or 
Mrs. Cannister’s grandchildren, and the three 
little Milligans.” 

Elizabeth’s face wrinkled. 

“We haven’t one of those on the list,” and 
she whistled softly. “I know there’ll be trouble 
in keeping the number down, and Virginia isn’t 
going to listen to dropping a single one. Poor 
little imps! Those who have heard about it 
are so crazy with delight that I’m afraid half 
of the East Side will expect to come out with 
them. I don’t see how we can manage more 
than fifty, but I won’t be at all surprised if twice 
that number get here. Well, it’s the Christ 
Child’s day, and we’ll just have to do the best 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


271 


we can,” and Elizabeth, getting up, dropped her 
work to call Charlotte to bring her more tarle- 
tan and ribbons and lace; and Portia, glancing 
at her, saw her face was full of the mother-look 
that belongs to womanhood and that comes 
from the mother-heart within, and she sighed 
slightly. 

It had been Virginia’s idea to give the chil- 
dren a day at Spinstervilla, with a sleigh-ride, 
a dinner, and a Christmas-tree by way of enter- 
tainment, and Elizabeth and Portia had agreed 
so readily that the Christmas spirit had proved 
infectious, and Livingston and the boys, as 
Portia always called Laurie and Irving, felt 
themselves filled with something of the old 
Christmas thrill that they had thought was for- 
ever dead. 

Joyce and Brydon would be home in a few 
days, and on the 24th they were to come out to 
Spinstervilla and stay until the 28th, and in 
consequence of this there was much bustle and 
preparation and excitement in getting the house 
in holiday attire, not only in honor of the sea- 
son, but of the travelers’ return as well. 

“Everything must be just beautiful,” Vir- 
ginia had declared, “and warm and bright and 
welcoming, for it is so nice to have a fuss made 
over you when you get back home.” And under 
her direction they had worked untiringly to 
make the house as bright and attractive as pos- 
sible, and the result was satisfactory to all. 

From the old home in Virginia had come bar- 
rels of holly laden with rich red berries; and 


272 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


running cedar and mistletoe, and sweet, fra- 
grant pine, and in each room were the Christ- 
mas decorations of the days when all the family 
and all its connections and friends would gather 
for their Christmas greetings, and drink to the 
memory of the year that was past, and touch 
glasses lightly to the one that was before them. 

Virginia had been a child of twelve when she 
had left the old home and the old life, but her 
most impressionable years had been spent in it, 
and deep in her heart was an undying love for 
every remembrance of it. Now that there was 
a chance to have a real Christmas she had de- 
cided on its being somewhat after those which 
had made her young life so beautifully happy, 
and when she stood, one day, knee deep in pine 
and holly and cedar, she hugged it to her heart 
in sheer delight at its beauty, and as no one was 
by, kissed it over and over again. 

“We are to hang up our stockings on the 
chimney-piece in the hall,” she had told Irving, 
“and I want a nice, big stocking like I used to 
have; but I want a sure-enough stocking, not 
one of those fancy things they make for chil- 
dren now-a-days.” 

Irving had laughed and called her a baby, but 
the next time he came out he brought a good- 
sized package, and throwing it at her said he 
hoped they would suit, and her ringing laughter 
on opening it had brought the others quickly to 
see what was the matter. 

She held up the unshapely white things in her 
hand, and at the sight of them Elizabeth 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 273 

dropped in a chair and held out her hands to 
get one. 

“Legs of the long departed !” she cried tri- 
umphantly. “Irving, you’re a credit to anti- 
quarianism and a rebuke to the spirit of the age ; 
but where on earth did you find them ?” and she 
held one out at arm’s length joyously. 

“What’s the matter with ’em?” he asked, 
standing with his hands in his pockets and look- 
ing at first one and then the other as if indig- 
nant. “Virginia said she wanted a sure-enough 
stocking, big and deep, and when I saw these I 
took all the girl had.” 

He took up one and looked at it critically. 

“If they weren’t bran-new I’d declare they 
belonged to Aunt Rebecca. Remember Aunt 
Rebecca, Portia? She was the fattest woman 
out of a show I ever saw, and when we were 
boys Joe and I used to ride twelve miles to get 
three of her stockings to hang up at Christ- 
mas — one for Edith, one for him and one for 
myself, and she always gave us old ones with 
holes in the toes.” 

He poked his hand into the foot of the stock- 
ing he held, and ran his fingers down to the toe 
cautiously, then looked at it almost lovingly. 

“Daisy, ain’t it ? I’ve been in a dozen shops 
since I was out here last, trying to get some 
stockings like Aunt Rebecca’s, and when I 
found these I nearly gave the girl a fit. I 
scooped ’em up and said I’d take the whole 
bunch ; walked off too and forgot my change, so 


274 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


they came pretty high after all, even if they 
aren’t the latest style.” 

He took up one pair after another and laid 
them out in a row. 

“Pretty ghastly, but Aunt Rebecca never 
wore a black one in her life, and somehow black 
ones didn’t seem to fit. But where are you 
going to hang them? Have you chosen any 
particular spot yet, my lady ?” and he took Vir- 
ginia by the shoulders and pushed her over to 
the old-fashioned mantel-piece. “Choose first, 
as you are the youngest; then Elizabeth, then 
Portia. I suppose Joyce and Brydon won’t 
care to have their stockings separated, so they’ll 
have to take this end over here. As usual we 
men will have the leavings.” 

Virginia’s eyes swept the mantel shelf 
quickly. 

“Elizabeth must have the middle,” she said 
presently, measuring distances. “Portia will 
be on one side and I on the other. Joyce next 
to me and Brydon next to Portia, that makes 
five; then Laurie’s and Mr. Livingston’s and 
yours, and then” — she looked at Portia a little 
doubtfully — “and then Aunt Agatha’s — that 
makes nine exactly.” 

Irving gave a long whistle. 

“Do you mean Mrs. Field is to be here too?” 
he asked, taking out his note-book and pencil. 
“And how did it happen, may I inquire?” 

Portia smiled in spite of an effort not to do 

so. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


275 


“I had a pitiful little note from her yesterday, 
asking me if she couldn’t come too, just for a 
day or so, as it would be so lonely in her big 
house with nobody in it but servants. Of 
course I wrote her to come.” 

Irving ran his hand cautiously over her back. 
I’m terribly afraid you aren’t human, but noth- 
ing has happened yet. It’s jolly good of you 
to let her come, however, after her beastly treat- 
ment all these years, but I guess it would be 
pretty tough to be by one’s lonesome at a time 
like this. After all, it’s Christmas, and God 
knows a lonely Christmas is bad enough for a 
man — much less a woman.” 

He took up his pencil and note-book and be- 
gan to scribble hastily. He was ashamed of 
himself, but his eyes were blurred. There had 
been several lonely Christmases for him since 
he had left his old home, and before he had dis- 
covered Portia in New York, and the prospect 
of this one had made him boyishly happy for 
days past. 

“There,” he said, trying to speak gaily; 
“there are our names. Give me some pins, 
Elizabeth, and I’ll fix these up now so there’ll 
be no fighting for places at the last minute. 
Remember how we used to row over them when 
we were kids, Virginia? Yo'u were pretty 
small, but no one who ever saw Edith at Christ- 
mas would ever forget her. She used to choose 
her place a month ahead, and I’ve had many a 
fight with Joe because he would hang his stock- 


276 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


ing in a different place every night. Just think ! 
Edith’s got two babies of her own now, and has 
been in California six years.” 

He stepped back and surveyed the bits of 
paper critically. 

“That looks something like, and I hope the 
Honorable S. Claus won’t have any difficulty in 
making out who’s who.” 

“But you haven’t written Charlotte’s name, 
nor Martha’s, nor Pleasants’s,” said Virginia. 
“It would break their hearts to be left out. Put 
theirs around this end.” 

“Sure,” and Irving bowed low — “sure, any 
more ?” 

“Plenty, but space prevents,” and she threw 
him a kiss. “And now come help me finish the 
dining-room. Some more holly came to-day, 
and it’s even ‘more redder,’ Pleasants says, than 
the first lot.” 

Christmas Eve dawned clear and cold, and 
dazzlingly white. For two days past it had 
snowed heavily, and when on the third day the 
sun came out again all nature was proudly re- 
splendent in garments too gorgeous save for its 
own offspring. A thin crust had formed upon 
the snow-covered ground and glazed the bur- 
dened branches of the trees with flashing crys- 
tals, and the cold, crisp air sent the blood in 
splendid surges through the body. 

Inside the house the sun poured itself lavishly 
in every spot and corner, and in the deep fire- 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


277 


places the logs crackled and sputtered and flared 
up bravely in cheery warmth and greeting, 
while the Christmas greens lent perfume as well 
as color to the beautifully dressed rooms; and 
the Christmas spirit was in the heart of each. 

Joyce and Brydon had come, and like a child 
Joyce had run from room to room and eagerly, 
lovingly had searched each familiar spot to see 
if everything was as it had been left. 

“I was so dreadfully afraid something would 
be changed,” she said after a first hasty survey 
had been made. “Oh, Portia, Portia! it’s so 
good to be home again — so good!” and she 
hugged Portia to her heart as if she would 
squeeze the breath out of her body. 

“It has been but a little over two months 
since we went away, but we have seen so much 
that is great and wonderful and beautiful that 
we almost got tired of it, and I wouldn’t give 
this dear old-maid house for every palace in 
Europe — indeed I wouldn’t, and I am not crazy 
either. This is home and those other places are 
just huge houses.” 

“And you’ve fixed everything so beautifully, 
too,” she went on without pausing to take a 
good breath. “And it’s so warm and bright 
and sunshiny that I could just cry like an idiot 
and have a splendid time doing it, if Brydon 
wouldn’t say I was a goose,” and Joyce wiped 
her eyes and rubbed her cheeks in a tearful ex- 
cess of happiness that was contagious, and at 
sight of which the men had very promptly 
walked away. 


278 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


It was such a happy Christmas! Pleasants 
was well nigh popping with importance and 
pomposity at Brydon’s frequent whispered con- 
ferences concerning the exact proportions of 
that Southern seductive mystery called egg- 
nog, while Martha was sternly dignified over 
the unnecessarily lavish supply of Christmas 
good things that for weeks past she had been 
making. 

“ ’Tain’t human to be scrimptious at Christ- 
mas times,” she had said when Portia had 
mildly suggested a slight reduction in quantity 
as regarded her various preparations. Tain’t 
the way you been brought up to take notice of 
the number of cakes an’ pies an’ jelly an’ blay- 
monges an’ things w’at’s bein’ made ; an’ yo’ Pa 
an’ yo’ Ma wouldn’t like it ef they know’d 
’twarn’t bein’ done as usual.” 

“But there are not so many as there used to 
be,” Portia had protested; “and it’s sinful to 
waste things, Martha.” 

“Was’e ’em? Who’s goin’ to was’e ’em? 
How you know how many of ’em there’s goin’ 
to be? When a carriage-load of people rides 
up and stays to dinner and supper — w’at you 
goin’ to do with ’em, an’ how ’bout them wait- 
ers ? — takes a powerful lot to ’low fer waiters.” 

Portia tried to hide a smile behind her hand- 
kerchief. 

“But people up here don’t send waiters to 
each other at Christmas, Martha. That was 
an old Southern custom, and it isn’t the fashion 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


V 9 


up here, and they don’t ride up in carriages and 
stay to dinner and supper unless they are 
invited.” 

Martha dropped down in her chair and rolled 
her arms up in her apron. 

“Go way, Miss Portia — you jes’ tryin' to 
plague me. Whoever hearn tell of a place w’at 
didn’t send their compliments an’ fruit cake an’ 
jelly an’ things to one anodder at Christmas? 
This heah ain’t no heathen country. You tell 
me ain’t none of them folks w’at lives in these 
big places round heah goin’ to send you no 
waiters ? — an’ you Marse Deming’s darter ! 
Go long, Miss Portia! I jus’ want to show 
these w’ite folks up heah w’at we kin do. Don’t 
you feel no oneasiness ’bout yo’ waiters. I 
know what’s spected of quality an’ what you 
been used to, an’ you ain’t agoin’ to feel no 
shame ’bout yo’ cakes an’ things,” and Portia 
was dismissed from the kitchen by a wave of 
the hand. 

When the sick girl Charlotte, whom Virginia 
had discovered in the hospital, was able to leave 
the latter, she was brought to Spinstervilla ; and 
when she realized she was to stay there until she 
was well and strong again, her delight had been 
almost pitiful. A sewing-girl was needed, they 
had said, and in order to make her feel as if at 
work, she had been given some simple sewing 
to do; but she understood the sewing was a 
pretext to help her to health and strength again, 
and her devotion to each became absolute from 
the first. 


28 o 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


Her interest in the Christmas preparations, 
and the home-coming of the one she did not 
know, was childishly intense, and her happiness 
in being in such surroundings showed itself 
continually in her untiring efforts to be of use ; 
and when Mr. Livingston shook hands with her 
kindly and called her by name, she had flushed 
with a warm color that had made her plain face 
almost pretty. 

“Some of these days,” she had whispered to 
Virginia that night, “some of these days when 
you need a maid of your own, you will let me 
be it, won’t you, Miss Virginia?” And Vir- 
ginia had promised that if ever a maid was 
needed she should be the same, and Charlotte 
had gone to bed content that some of these days 
she would live forever with Virginia. 

Laurie and Irving were Livingston’s guests, 
and when on Christmas Eve their sleigh- 
bells were heard outside there was as merry a 
rush to greet them as if they had not been seen 
for weeks — and such a jolly, happy time there 
was that night! 

After supper — after Martha’s most delicious 
supper — mysterious-looking bundles and boxes 
began suddenly to appear, and such whisper- 
ings, and cornerings ; such guessing and feeling 
and thumping of packages, and such queer- 
shaped things as the stockings were when filled 
and hung in place, had surely never been seen 
before. 

Brydon was boyishly happy. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


28l 

“I don’t believe I will sleep a wink to-night, 
wondering what on earth Joyce has finally de- 
cided to give me. She bought a new thing in 
every new place she went to in Europe, and for 
a day or so she would keep it a secret, then she 
would show it to me and decide to give it to 
some one else, and now she says her last pur- 
chase has been put in this,” and Brydon touch- 
ed with his foot a large wooden box upon which 
his name was written in big letters. “I think 
it’s a gas stove, or a typewriter, or a family 
Bible,” he went on. “But if anybody can give 
me an idea, I’ll have a better night’s rest, I 
imagine.” 

Joyce laughed joyously. 

“I hope you won’t sleep a wink for getting 
such unguessable-looking things for me. What 
do you reckon this is, Virginia?” and she lifted 
a box and shook it lightly. 

“Put it down quick, it might break,” and 
Brydon took it out of her hands and put it 
among things marked with her name. 

“Break! Now I know it’s lace,” and Joyce 
turned to Portia to help her with a fresh relay 
of bundles that had just been brought in. 

All through the hall, on chairs and sofas and 
tables and floor, were bundles and boxes of ev- 
ery imaginable shape and size and style, and 
late into the night they assorted and put in sep- 
arate piles those for whom each was intended. 

“Virginia always had the big sofa when she 
was a child, and she might as well take it to- 


28 2 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


night, for I don’t know what to do with all the 
things with her name on them,” and Portia 
looked as helplessly at Elizabeth as if she were 
in trouble. 

Elizabeth laughed. 

“Bring over the sofa, Brydon, you and Irv- 
ing, and put it close to the wall. There, that 
will be Virginia’s place, and all her things can 
go on it. Portia can take that big table and I’ll 
take this chair. You and Joyce can have that 
corner all by your loving selves,” and she gave 
Brydon a slight push in the direction indicated. 
“Irving can have that chair, and Laurie this, 
and Mr. Livingston the table opposite Joyce. 
Mrs. Field must have the table near her, and 
Charlotte’s things can go on the book shelves ; 
2nd Pleasants’s and Martha’s” — she stopped 
perplexed. “If any more bundles have their 
names on them they’ll have to be burnt up. 
They’ve enough here now to make them crazy 
until next Christmas, and if we come across 
any more they will have to take them to-night 
or never see them.” 

“ ’Tain’t no trouble ’bout takin’ ’em to-night, 
Miss Elizabeth,” they heard a chuckling voice 
say, and turning saw Pleasants standing in the 
doorway with a huge bowl of foaming egg-nog 
in his hands, while behind him was Martha 
holding an old-fashioned silver tray upon which 
was an immense fruit cake. Instantly every 
bundle was dropped and there was a great 
clapping of hands, and in a moment Portia had 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 283 

the ladle, and the first glass was carried by 
Brydon to his mother. 

All through the merry chatter of the evening, 
with its utter abandonment of restraint and its 
fresh enjoyment of the simple, wholesome 
pleasures of the season, she had sat an interest- 
ed spectator. The cold and haughty look of 
other days had somehow slipped away, and she 
was a woman again, with a woman’s human in- 
terest in those things which make life pure and 
sweet, and as Brydon brought her the glass of 
egg-nog, the first she had seen in many years, 
her hand shook slightly, but her eyes were filled 
with a light he had never seen in them before. 

“Is it all right, mother ?” he asked, and when 
she nodded he stooped over and gave her a kiss 
and patted her hands tenderly, and then went 
back to the table, where Portia was still busily 
filling the glasses. 

“May you live long and prosper,” he said, 
holding up his glass and touching lightly those 
of the others — “you and all your family !” He 
took a deep draught. “By George, but this is 
a dandy! Pleasants, you’re a poet and ought 
to go in the hall of fame! Just a little bit 
more, Portia — there, that will do. What ! 
you’re going to take some more too, Joyce? — 
surprised at you! Fill up there, John and 
Irving. Laurie, I’m rather afraid of you, my 
boy. You weren’t raised on this, and it’s pow- 
erfully seductive — nothing more insidious ex- 
cept apple-toddy. Just think of the apple-toddy 


284 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


and egg-nog they’re drinking in Virginia to- 
night !” 

Virginia raised her glass quickly. 

“Drink, all of you!” she cried, “to Virginia 
— the dear Mother State! May her children 
never forget that her honor is in their keep- 
ing!” She touched her glass to her lips as the 
others raised theirs, then put it down hurriedly 
and walked over to her aunt. 

Not a bundle was unwrapped that night, but 
before light the next morning the entire house- 
hold was awakened by the blowing of horns, 
the ringing of bells, and the popping of crack- 
ers; and looking out they saw Livingston and 
Laurie and Irving, in the snow, and pounding 
each other with snow-balls as if they were 
boys of ten. 

“This is Irving’s doings,” shouted Laurie, 
moulding a good-sized ball and throwing it at 
Brydon, whose head was poked out of the win- 
dow to see what was the matter. “He’s had us 
awake since four o’clock, and we had to come 
over to save his reason. Hurry up there and 
come out and we’ll give you an appetite for a 
Christmas gift.” 

Such a scurrying there was to get dressed, 
and such a jolly breakfast, to which all came 
holding their stockings in their hands. “I’m 
starving, but I couldn’t even eat one of Mar- 
tha’s pop-overs until I empty this old lady,” 
and Brydon held his stocking up by the toe and 
began to shake out its contents. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


285 


“That isn’t the way,” cried Joyce, trying to 
stop him. “You must take out each thing sep- 
arately — see?” and she began to pull hers out 
slowly one by one. 

“Takes too long that way,” and Brydon 
dumped the contents of his in Joyce’s lap. 

Surely their laughter must have been heard 
a good distance off, for the surprises of each 
package caused fresh peals, and Pleasants was 
finally so overcome that he had to retire and 
shake in the kitchen, while Charlotte was called 
in to take his place. 

After breakfast came the unwrapping of 
bundles and boxes, and this time the laughter 
was almost turned into tears as each revealed 
some evidence of thought and love, or some re- 
membrance of a particular desire; and for- a 
while everybody was chokingly happy and try- 
ing hard to talk naturally. 

“But you’ve given us so many things, Mr. 
Livingston,” said Elizabeth — “not just one 
thing; and such beautiful ones. I believe I have 
four different boxes with your card in each. 
“You really oughtn’t — ” 

Livingston put out his hand protestingly. 

“Please don’t ; this is the first real Christmas 
I’ve had for many years — surely you would not 
begrudge the pleasure it has given me?” 

“Not a bit of it,” she said frankly, “and I 
only wish I could give you what you most want 
on earth. It’s worth waiting for, however,” — 


286 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


her voice was very gentle, — “and some day I 
pray God it may be yours.” 

“You mean — ?” he asked, turning to her 
with a flash of sudden hope in his eyes. 

“I mean when it is right that it should be,” 
she said quietly. “Come — Brydon is calling 
us, I think.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


The children had gone and quiet again reign- 
ed at Spinstervilla. “Centre rush was nothing 
to it,” Brydon had declared; “but they were a 
jelly lot of little devils, and their ‘stomicks,’ as 
one of them said, were so full there wasn’t a 
wrinkle left. A red-head youngster confided 
that to me as a happy secret, and I thought of 
brandy and soda, but he seemed such a cheerful 
little pig I concluded he didn’t need treatment.” 

The limit of fifty had been so upset by the 
wails of the disappointed who were not includ- 
ed, and the appeals of those who were, that it 
had turned out as Elizabeth had predicted, and 
over one hundred little Arabs on the morning 
of the 27th had been piled into the sleighs 
which Livingston had provided, and been 
warmly tucked under fur robes with feet to hot 
bricks, and taken for a ride. 

Over the snow they flew and found them- 
selves of a sudden in a wonderland of beauty 
and marvelous sights, and from the ride they 
had been brought into the cheerful warmth and 
brightness of Spinstervilla, and had sat down 
to a dinner that was to live forever in memory. 


288 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


How they had stuffed their little stomachs, 
and how the ladies and gentlemen had waited 
on them ! And then the Christmas-tree ! Such 
a great, big, splendid tree it was, with some- 
thing pretty and something useful for each one, 
and the cakes and candy and nuts and fruit that 
they were to take back with them ! — It was all 
like a beautiful dream. 

Just before they started for home, Virginia 
felt her sleeve pulled timidly, and turning saw a 
little lame fellow, whom she had found some 
months before at a hospital, looking up into her 
face. 

“Whose birthday did you say it was?” he 
asked softly, and she could hardly hear his 
voice in the shouts and noise made by the other 
children. “Whose birthday did you say it 
was ?” 

“The Christ Child’s,” she answered gently. 
“And He is so glad you have had such a happy 
time to-day, Jakey dear,” and she drew him 
closer as she spoke. 

He shook his head slowly, still looking with 
his strange, earnest gaze into her face. 

“I have had the best time I ever had in my 
life,” he answered quietly; “but He don’t know 
me. He ain’t never even heard of me, I guess. 
I’m just lame Jakey,” and he sighed a queer lit- 
tle sigh and looked shyly again into her face. 
“I wish you would tell Him, though, I’ve had 
an awful good time, and I’m ever so much 
obliged.” 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


289 


It was a very tired and happy household that 
went to bed that night at Spinstervilla, but 
when in the morning Joyce and Brydon left to 
go back to their city home, Joyce wept copi- 
ously and clung to each one as if she were leav- 
ing for life. 

“I didn’t mind it at first so much,” she sob- 
bed half comically, “for that was just taking 
a trip with Brydon and I knew I was coming 
back for Christmas, but it will never be the 
same again, never. You all will make company 
of us, and Martha will think she is bound to 
make something specially good, and — ” 

“That I will, honey; that I will,” broke in 
Martha, who was standing in the doorway 
waiting to say good-by. “Don’t you think old 
Marthy ain’t a-goin’ to give you the best what 
she can make whenever you come out, for she 
ever are,” and with a groaning kind of cry 
Martha threw her apron over her head and dis- 
appeared without further farewells. 

For the rest of the day there was a terribly 
let-down feeling over the entire household. 
The excitement of the season was over and the 
reaction, which is almost as much to be dreaded 
as the pleasure is to be anticipated, had settled 
upon all. 

In the library Portia was busy at her desk 
writing notes of thanks for her many remem- 
brances, and Elizabeth, who hated with a 
deadly hatred to write a letter, had locked her- 
self in her room to struggle over hers with 


290 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


dogged persistency until the last one was fin- 
ished; but Virginia was in no mood for writ- 
ing. An unaccountable restlessness was upon 
her, and a sense of impending possibilities 
thrilled her with an anxiety she could not 
explain or understand. On the morrow Char- 
lotte, the former maid of Mrs. Grey, was to 
leave them. A new maid was needed at Hamp- 
stead and Livingston had sent his housekeeper 
over to see if Charlotte could not fill the place. 
The delight of the latter in being in Living- 
ston’s employ, and the prospect of seeing Vir- 
ginia occasionally, had filled her with a childish 
happiness, and for the first time since she had 
left the hospital her face was entirely free from 
its haunting look of anxiety. 

Since she had been at Spinstervilla she had 
received several letters from Mrs. Grey. These 
letters had been sent to the hospital and from 
there forwarded, through the kindness of one 
of the nurses, who had been bound to secrecy 
should Mrs. Grey inquire for her former maid’s 
address. As they had never been answered 
they had gradually become less frequent, and 
Charlotte had begun to breathe freely again at 
the thought of having seen the last of her one- 
time mistress. At first these letters had been 
heartlessly selfish. . How long did she intend 
to stay sick? It was time she was back at 
work. A little later they were slightly con- 
ciliatory. She hoped she was now better and 
would come back at once. Later still they 
were angrily impatient, 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


29I 


“You must leave the hospital immediately. 
The doctors are fooling you. You are not 
really ill. My clothes are going to ruin, the 
new maid is a fool,” and finally a wail of 
appeal : “I am ill myself, you must come back 
to me — no one knows what to do for me as 
you do*.” 

These letters Charlotte took to Virginia, who 
advised her to burn them and take no notice of 
them. It had been distinctly understood when 
Charlotte left Mrs. Grey that she would not 
return to her, and the latter had let her go be- 
lieving she was too sick to be of future use; but 
when she realized the incompetency of her new 
maids, she chose to forget that her former re- 
lationship was a thing of the past and demand- 
ed her return. Virginia, knowing this, advised 
her to in no way notice her letters or have any 
communication with her, with the result that 
the strained look in Charlotte’s face had grad- 
ually given way to one of peace and content, 
and a merry laugh was sometimes heard from 
her. 

The day dragged slowly away. A cold, 
drizzling rain that turned into sleet as it fell 
added to its cheerlessness, and just as darkness 
was settling over the earth and sky Virginia, 
who had gone to the porch for a moment to 
see if there were any signs of clearing weather, 
saw a boy from the village trudging rapidly up 
the path that led to the house. He saw her 
standing in the door, and waving her to stop 


292 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


ran up the steps two at a time. “It’s for you, 
Miss Virginia, and I brought it up at once with- 
out waiting for the horse. ,, He handed her a 
telegram as he spoke and clapped his hands to- 
gether to warm his finger tips, which were ting- 
ling with cold, and looked at her inquiringly. 
“Ain’t nothing wrong, I hope?” 

Virginia took the yellow envelope which he 
handed her, and the blood surged thickly 
through her heart. 

Was it Livingston? — or Joyce or Brydon? — 
or Aunt Ann? — or George? All day she had 
felt that something was going to happen. She 
held the paper limply for a moment and waited 
for her heart to stop its rapid beating. It could 
not be Mr. Livingston, he was at Hampstead. 
Brydon would have ’phoned had anything been 
wrong. Were it about Aunt Ann, Portia would 
have received the message. It was from 
George, no doubt. He was probably on leave 
of absence and was coming to see them. With 
a sense of relief she tore the envelope open and 
began to read. 

“Come to me at once. I am dying. I must 
see you. In God’s name, come ! 

“Margaret Grey.” 

The paper fluttered out of her hand and the 
boy, stooping over, picked it up and handed it 
to her again. “Ain’t nothing wrong, I hope, 
Miss Virginia. Ain’t nobody dead, is it?” 

His words recalled her to herself. She 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


293 


opened the door and motioned him to go inside. 
“No, no one is dead/’ she answered mechani- 
cally. “Go in and get warm. I will send a 
message in a moment.” The boy walked in 
quickly and went over to the fire and held his 
hands out to the cheerful blaze. It was an 
awful pretty place and he hoped Miss Virginia 
wouldn’t be in a hurry with the return message. 
For a while he sat in silence looking intently at 
every object in the hall, then he saw the girl 
Charlotte go over to the ’phone and nervously 
ring up somebody. It was the city connection 
she wanted and it was a doctor she was talking 
to. “Was Mrs. Grey really ill?” she asked. 
“Would she die? Was it one of her heart at- 
tacks?” He didn’t know what the answers 
were, but the woman seemed terribly excited, 
and the boy watching her knew that something 
was wrong and that the message he had 
brought meant trouble. 

After a while Virginia came out into the hall, 
and though quiet, a red spot burned in each 
cheek and her lips were twitching painfully. 
“There is no return message, Billy,” she said, 
going over to the boy and putting her hand on 
his shoulder, “so there is no need for you to 
hurry back. Go in and tell Martha I say to 
give you something nice and hot for supper,” 
and before he could thank her- she had disap- 
peared again. 

When first she had left him and gone into 
her room she had shut the door sharply, crush- 


294 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


ing at the same time the bit of yellow paper in 
her hand, and struggling fiercely to crowd back 
the wild joy that had surged over her when the 
message had been first understood. 

She was ashamed of herself, horribly 
ashamed, and yet for a moment she could not 
kill the thought of what it would mean. It 
would wipe out all difficulties, overcome all bar- 
riers, and Livingston would be a free man once 
more. She steadied herself by the bed, and in 
the stillness she could hear her heart beating 
rapidly, and then suddenly it seemed to stop 
and everything in the room swung round and 
round, and she dropped in a heap on the floor 
and the slip of paper in her hand fell out and 
fluttered under a chair near by. 

Only for a moment did she lay thus, how- 
ever. Very speedily consciousness came back 
again, and the hideousness of the joy she had 
felt swept over her in a wave of horror at the 
apparent wickedness of her own heart. 

She reached out and picked up the telegram 
and began to read it over and over again. 
“Come to me at once. I am dying.” She re- 
peated the words out loud — “dying” ! Then 
she buried her head in her arms and shuddered 
at the awfulness of the thought. This woman 
dying? This splendid piece of flesh and blood? 
This beautiful thing who lived only for pleas- 
ure? Dying? Impossible! Death was not 
meant for her. She would not die. She would 
defy death and live, and this telegram was 
meant in some way to entrap her. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


295 


Should she go to her ? She shrank from the 
thought with a great loathing. She could not 
go to her even if she were really ill. She might 
not die, and she would make this visit a matter 
of jest among her friends when once she was 
herself again. This was probably one of her 
heart attacks which was more serious than 
usual. Generally they were of short duration, 
Charlotte said, and she quickly recovered from 
them. Should she go ? 

She looked around the room appealingly, 
then got up slowly and rang for Charlotte. 
For some little while they talked it over be- 
tween them, and Charlotte’s dismay at the news 
the telegram brought quieted Virginia quickly. 

“I must go to her myself, Miss Virginia,” 
the girl said finally, “for if she is as ill as the 
doctor thinks, even though she ain’t exactly 
dying, she will need me badly. She is the lone- 
liest woman on earth for women friends, and 
she don’t hesitate to say she’s got no use for 
them. I don’t love her. I’ve got no cause to 
love her, but I’ve lived with her for almost ten 
years, and if she is dying it wouldn’t be human 
not to go to her.” 

She said the words with no thought of mean- 
ing as applied to Virginia, but they aroused the 
latter to a sense of cowardice and she began to 
get ready to go at once. 

The telegram was shown Portia and Eliza- 
beth immediately, and from the latter there was 
a sharp, decided protest. 


296 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“I don’t approve of your going at all,” she 
said bluntly. “I wouldn’t trust Mrs. Grey be- 
hind a rosebush, and she’s up to some devil- 
ment, you may be sure.” 

Portia looked suddenly drawn and old. 

“I hardly know what to say, Virginia. If 
the woman is dying one can hardly refuse her 
request. If you go, I must go with you, how- 
ever.” 

“Charlotte is going with me,” Virginia 
answered quietly. “She knows best what to 
do and how to do it. If she finds Mrs. Grey 
as ill as she represents and still wishes to see 
me, I will go to her; but until Charlotte sees 
her I promise you I will do nothing.” 

There was time to catch the 7.20 train, and 
with a hurried good-by Virginia and Charlotte 
were driven rapidly to the station by Pleasants, 
and not until they were safely seated in the 
train did Virginia entirely realize what she was 
doing. Two hours ago such a thing would 
have seemed impossible. She had left no mes- 
sage for Livingston, and she hoped he would 
not even hear of this visit until she herself 
could tell him of it. He would have disap- 
proved intensely of her going, and go she must. 
What could Mrs. Grey want with her? A 
thousand times this question repeated itself, 
and still she could find no answer. The train 
stopped and she got up hurriedly and went out. 
The cold night air blew gratefully on her hot 
face, and giving the address to the driver she 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


297 


almost pushed Charlotte into the nearest cab 
and got in quickly after her. 

It was Charlotte who spoke next. 

“Here we are, Miss Virginia. Must I tell 
the man to wait ?” 

“Yes,” she answered, handing the man some 
money; “yes, he can wait until I find out how 
long I am needed.” 

It was a very handsome apartment house 
they entered, the handsomest Virginia had ever 
seen; but when they found themselves on the 
floor occupied by Mrs. Grey a stifling sensation 
came over her and for a moment she felt sick. 
Only for a moment, however, for when the bell 
was answered by an ill-mannered maid, she was 
herself again and spoke quietly : 

“This is Mrs. Grey’s apartment ?” she asked. 

“Yes,” answered the maid sourly. “But you 
can’t see her. She is sick.” 

“I think I can,” and Virginia pushed Char- 
lotte through the half-opened doorway. “I 
have been sent for, but this friend of hers will 
see her first. Will you take her to Mrs. Grey 
or shall she go alone?” 

The maid stood back angrily. 

“I won’t do neither,” she answered. “My 
orders are to let no one in.” 

“Then your orders are wrong. Go on, 
Charlotte, and let Mrs. Grey know I am here.” 

Charlotte stepped by the girl, stupidly glar- 
ing at them, and disappeared, and Virginia, 
walking over to the table, put her muff on it. 


298 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


After a moment she sat down and glanced 
slowly around the room. It was dazzlingly 
furnished. Mirrors and gilt, and satin and lace 
were in rich profusion, and the sensuous lux- 
uriousness of the place was felt as well as seen. 
Here and there were vases and bowls of faded 
flowers, which in spite of the gorgeousness of 
the room gave a drearily neglected air to it that 
was depressing, and Virginia had a strong 
impulse to raise one of the windows that she 
might overcome the stale perfume of the dead 
roses and withered violets and breathe some- 
thing fresh again. But before she could do so, 
Charlotte was back and beckoning to her, and 
getting up she followed her into the room 
where Mrs. Grey lay. 

The latter’s eyes were wide open, and there 
was something in them that put Virginia on 
her guard. She was breathing badly, but with 
a movement of the hand she motioned the nurse 
and Charlotte to leave the room. When they 
had gone she turned to Virginia — 

“And so you have come,” she said gaspingly. 

“Yes, I have come.” 

The left hand of the sick woman fingered the 
counterpane nervously, the right one being hid- 
den under it. They faced each other for a 
moment, then Mrs. Grey motioned Virginia to 
sit down. 

The latter rested her arms against the foot of 
the bed and shook her head slowly. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


299 


“You have something to say to me? It is 
not necessary to sit down. I have only a few 
moments to stay.” 

The woman on the bed smiled scornfully. 

“And so you believed it, believed the lie I 
wrote. They say I am going to die this time, 
but I tell you it is a lie — it is a lie !” 

Her voice rose high and shrill and she half 
raised herself in bed, and Virginia saw at once 
that she was in a dangerous state of excitement. 

“Perhaps they are mistaken,” she said 
quietly, though her heart was beating rapidly. 
“Is there anything I can do for you, or is there 
anything you wish to say to me?” 

Mrs. Grey lay back pantingly. She tried to 
reach for a glass on the table near her, but her 
hand fell limply to her side. Virginia seeing 
what she wanted, held it up to her. 

“Is this it?” 

She nodded, and as Virginia held it to her 
lips she drained its contents eagerly, and after 
a moment opened her eyes again. 

“It is a lie,” she whispered ; “I am not dying. 
I will not die. I tell you I will not die !” 

Virginia stooped over and took the tremb- 
ling fingers in her hands and held them firmly. 

“Yes,” she said soothingly, “I think it is a 
mistake. You are not going to die.” 

The woman turned to her with a passionate 
light in her eyes that was almost blinding. 

“Do you really mean it,” she cried hysteri- 
cally; “do you mean it? They said I had to 
die, and I’m afraid. Pm afraid !” 


300 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“And is that why you sent for me ?” 

Virginia’s voice was low and gentle now. 
Th;e woman beside her was face to face with 
that dread mystery before which all else in life, 
save right and righteousness, shrivels into 
nothingness, and her heart went out in a great 
pity toward her. 

“Is that why you sent for me?” 

“I sent for you” — her voice was full of the 
old recklessness — “because I had sworn that if 
I had to die — you should not live — to be his 
wife !” 

The hand under the bed clothes shook 
strangely, and with a quick movement Virginia 
threw them back and saw it clutched a tiny 
pistol. With another movement equally as un- 
expected she snatched it from the feeble fingers 
which grasped it, and walking over to the man- 
tel put it down. She was quivering all over, 
but clenching her teeth that they might not 
chatter, she came back and drew the covering 
over the shivering body again. 

The woman glared at her with wild, angry 
eyes, then broke into hysterical cries : 

“I am going mad!” she cried, burying her 
head in her arms. “Great God, I am going 
mad! I wanted to kill you and I have no 
strength ! Give it back to me — I swear you 
shall not live — you shall not — marry him ! 
Give it to me! Give — it — to — me!” 

Suddenly she relaxed and lay back as one 
dead, white and still ; and Virginia, seeing some 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


3 GI 


brandy on the table, poured a little of it between 
her teeth and rubbed the beautiful white hands 
and arms vigorously. After a few minutes the 
eyelids fluttered painfully and then opened, the 
lips moved, but no words were spoken. The 
clock on the mantel struck the half hour and 
Mrs. Grey stirred restlessly. 

“I was going to kill you,” she said gaspingly, 
breaking the r awful silence at last. “I intended 
to kill you if you came.” 

“But you have changed your mind,” and 
Virginia almost smiled. “You do not wish to 
kill me now?” 

The splendid, wicked eyes looked up passion- 
ately at the girl by the bed. 

“Not if you will promise me you will not 
marry him,” she panted. “Will you promise 
me?” 

Virginia dropped the hand she had been rub- 
bing and got up quickly. 

“I will make you no promise of any kind, 
and now if there is nothing else you wish to 
say to me I must tell you good-night.” 

A spasm of nervous terror flashed across the 
face on the pillow, and with a trembling hand 
she tried to clutch at Virginia’s dress. 

“For God’s sake, don’t leave me — don’t 
leave me !” she cried. “Wait until the doctor 
comes — I tell you I am afraid. I am afraid !” 
She looked at Virginia wildly, then her voice 
changed again under the strain of excitement, 
and defiance took the place of terror. “But I 


302 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


will not die — I will not die !” she continued. “I 
will not be put in a dirty old grave and be cov- 
ered up and forgotten. Great God — I cannot 
die ! I cannot die !” 

She broke into gasping sobs, which shook 
her body convulsively, and Virginia, going to 
the door, called for the nurse. After a few 
moments the opiate given quieted her slightly, 
but Virginia dared not leave those terrified 
eyes following her every motion and gazing at 
her with a strange appeal, and yet she longed to 
get away. 

The nurse stepped out of the room to get 
something, and Mrs. Grey beckoned Virginia 
to come nearer. 

“Do not let me die,” she whispered — “I am 
not fit to die. Do you believe that when we 
die we shall live again ?” 

“With all my heart I believe it,” answered 
Virginia. 

Mrs. Grey shook her head scornfully. 

“I don’t believe it — I believe nothing — I 
don’t even believe in God; but to-night I am 
afraid. I tell you I am afraid !” 

She clutched again at Virginia’s dress and 
then she looked at her sharply. 

“Why don’t you marry my husband?” she 
gasped. “They say he loves you — the Galahad 
loves you. Why don’t you marry him ?” 

“Because I do believe in something.” 

The words were low but distinct, and the 
woman on the bed stared frowningly, then her 
mouth curved into a sneer. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


303 


“And what has that to do with it ?” 

A slight sound at Virginia’s back caused her 
to turn, and looking up she saw the doctor 
standing at the door. 

She bent over the bed — 

“If you have said all you wish, Mrs. Grey, 
1 will go. Is there anything else ?” 

“No, there is nothing else; and remember I 
am not going to die — I tell you I will not die !” 

A gasping, mocking laugh, that was horrible 
in its defiance of weakness and suffering, fol- 
lowed Virginia to the door, where the doctor 
stood aside to let her pass, and as he did so she 
understood that Charlotte, who knew him well, 
had explained her presence there at this hour 
of the night. 

Not until the next day, when safely back in 
her own home, after having spent the night 
with Joyce, did Virginia feel the reaction of the 
strain of her terrible interview with Mrs. Grey, 
or realize the full significance of the possibili- 
ties of her visit. 

To no one, not even to Charlotte or Portia, 
did she tell the incident of the pistol — that was 
one of the secrets she must carry through life, 
and the remembrance of it weighed heavily 
upon her. 

It was a sick woman’s fancy, caused by the 
terror of death, perhaps, was the explanation 
she had given of her visit; but she knew the 
explanation was a weak one and that each un- 


304 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


derstood there was more that might be told, but 
that the telling would be painful, and they had 
asked no questions. 

The first flush of anger that had filled her 
heart, the first feeling of horror, had passed 
away, and in its place was now a queer mixture 
of pity and contempt, with more pity than con- 
tempt. The woman was all physical, with no 
spiritual leaven in her heart or soul, and the 
more she thought about her the greater grew 
her pity for the undisciplined and indulged 
nature that was now face to face with the 
supreme tragedy of life from which it shrank 
in terror. 

The day grew into darkness, and as the twi- 
light fell she drew up the couch in front of .the 
blazing logs in the old-fashioned fire-place in 
the hall and threw herself upon it. She was 
singularly tired, and yet to-morrow she must 
go into the city, for the day had been promised 
to Joyce. 

With something of her old domineering 
spirit, Brydon’s mother had decided upon the 
form of introduction by which Joyce was to be 
presented to the new life, the new world which 
lay before her, and despite all protests the mat- 
ter had been settled and the list of invitations 
made out before the latter’s return from her 
wedding trip. It had pleased Mrs. Field to 
forget the manv remarks she had formerly 
made concerning her new daughter-in-law, and 
in presenting her to society she had decided to 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


305 


make a departure, and for once have the crush 
which an occasion of this kind necessitated. It 
had beguiled many weary hours, the making 
cut of these invitation lists, and she had allow- 
ed it to go forth that this affair was to be the 
most brilliant and the most beautiful that her 
little world had known for many years. That 
she was practically penniless so far as income 
was concerned she failed to consider. Brydon 
could attend to details of that nature, she would 
take charge of all things else; and though she 
could not present Joyce herself, in her chair she 
would take her accustomed place and receive 
her guests, while Brydon would introduce them 
to his wife. 

The pitifulness and comicalness of it all came 
over Virginia forcibly as she lay in front of the 
fire watching the flames dance up and down, 
and the puppet-part each life must play struck 
her with fresh realization. “After all, most of 
us are but creatures of our environment,” she 
thought dreamily, “and we dance to the music 
with which our string is pulled. Sometimes 
some of us have the courage to break the string, 
but not often — not often.” 

The sound of horses' hoofs on the frozen 
ground outside startled her, and she jumped up 
nervously. It was Livingston, she knew, and 
something was the matter. He came in quietly 
enough, but his first words were for Portia. 

“What is it,” asked Virginia; “what is it 
that has happened?” 


30 6 WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 

‘‘It is a message from Brydon. He asked 
me to come over and tell you for him.” 

He hesitated as if uncertain what next to say, 
and with relief saw Elizabeth and Portia com- 
ing toward him. 

“It is your Aunt Agatha,” he said, shaking 
hands with them abstractedly. “She — ” he 
stopped again. 

“What is it — ” and Virginia’s voice died 
away in her throat. “Is Aunt Agatha — ?” 

“Yes,” he said gently, “they found her dead 
in her chair by the table, where they had left 
her busy with some matters for the — ” he 
stopped. The word seemed so trivial. 

“Party,” put in Elizabeth soberly. “Death 
won after all. Well, there’ll be no party now. 
At least there’s that much to be thankful for.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


Before her marriage Joyce had plead and 
begged and almost wept in her entreaties that 
when Spinstervilla was closed for the winter 
months, its three old maids would come to Bry- 
don and herself and share with them their large 
and lonely house. 

Pleadings and arguments and tears had been 
in vain, however, for though it hurt Portia to 
deny Joyce, she knew it was best that these first 
few months should not be spent with her, and 
she was honest enough to tell her why. 

“Every man is entitled to the privacy of his 
own home when he is learning by degrees that 
his wife is — a woman — not an angel,” she had 
said half jestingly, yet meaning it very seri- 
ously. “And until you and Brydon have ad- 
justed yourselves to your new life it is due you 
both that you should be alone and discover with 
perfect freedom each other’s weaknesses and 
peculiarities.” 

“But we won’t be alone,” Joyce had pro- 
tested. “Mrs. Field is a colony in herself, and 
she will be with us you know.” 

“You will be with her, you mean,” Portia 
rejoined teasingly. “Poor Aunt Agatha! At 


3°8 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


one time I should have dreaded your going to 
her, but now she will not cause trouble and you 
will be practically alone, and it is best that you 
should be so. Perhaps you don’t know it, dear, 
but you have married a very human man and 
he a very human woman, and until you learn 
that this is the strongest point of congeniality 
between you, and the basis of the forbearance 
due each other, you are not in a normal con- 
dition, and it isn’t nice to live with people who 
aren’t normal.” 

She had laughed lightly, but Joyce knew fur- 
ther discussion was useless, and though both 
she and Brydon were deeply disappointed they 
understood that to longer insist would but be 
painful to Portia and in no way change her 
decision. Most unwillingly they had ac- 
cepted it, and the next best thing had been done 
by Brydon’s engaging for her an apartment 
very near them. 

The sudden death of Mrs. Field, however, 
had brought from Joyce a final appeal, and it 
was in answer to this that Portia was writing 
her when Elizabeth came into the room and sat 
down in a rather dejected attitude near the 
window. 

Portia looked up and smiled. 

“Well — and why such a look, my lady ?” 

Elizabeth lifted her eyebrows reproachfully. 

“I was just thinking how idiotic we were to 
leave this” — and she waved her hand around — 
“and go to that,” and she pointed toward the 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


3°9 


city. “Here we are so comfortable and con- 
tent, and can breathe and think and grow and 
be ourselves, and there we will have to live in a 
few stuffy cells. People who live in apart- 
ments are like prisoners — each has only his 
allotted space and so many cubic feet of air.” 

“.That depends upon the point of view,” 
Portia answered, sealing her letter and leaning 
back idly in her chair; “or on our recognition 
of the law of compensation. It remains with 
us generally whether when we lose one thing 
we do not at the same time gain another, or 
when we gain we do not at the same time lose. 
Every one needs the stir and stimulus of a city 
for part of the year at least,” she continued. 
“One needs the atmospheric influence of life 
and energy and human interests which the 
sight and sound and association of people gives, 
and if we would keep in touch with what the 
world is doing, we must take part in it, if possi- 
ble, not merely read about it.” 

“But I don’t like people,” Elizabeth pro- 
tested — “that is, many people, and if I had to 
lead Joyce’s life I should go into melancholy or 
insanity. To smirk and smile and be dressed 
up all the time would be maddening. I would 
be in a constant state of internal rage, and then 
I would give it up — and they’d call it — heart 
failure.” 

Portia looked across at the strong, earnest 
face, so free from all pretense, so full of eager 
sympathy for certain phases of life, so intoler- 
ant of others, and smiled indulgently. 


3io 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


“ You’re a splendid fraud, Elizabeth, and you 
don’t know it. You pretend to dislike people 
and you’re the best friend to people I know. 
The one person you are not generous to” — she 
hesitated — “is Laurie. Are you never going 
to give him the answer he wishes, dear?” 

Elizabeth unfolded her arms and drummed 
a little impatiently on the sides of her chair, but 
she did not look in Portia’s direction. 

“Don’t you think, Elizabeth, that some day 
you can marry him ?” 

“Never — couldn’t do it to save my life,” and 
she stopped short. “I really have tried to see 
if I couldn’t,” she went on after a minute, “but 
it’s impossible. I can’t do it. I could love his 
children dearly and be very fond of his wife — 
but I couldn’t be his wife.” 

She wiped her lips nervously and the color 
died slowly out of her face, then she began 
again. 

“There is something I want to tell you, 
Portia ; something I have never told any one in 
my life before, but I want you to know this 
now, for it will make us understand each other 
better and settle the chance of our ever separa- 
ting. I don’t intend to let you get rid of me. 
Somebody must keep up Spinstervilla. Joyce 
is married, and Virginia,” — she hesitated, — 
“some day, perhaps, Virginia will be in her 
own home, and you and I must stay together to 
keep this one for them to come back to.” 

She leaned forward in her chair, and resting 
her elbows on her knees held her chin in her 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


3 11 

clasped hands and with unseeing eyes gazed in 
the fire, and the room grew very quiet. 

“About a hundred years ago,” she finally con- 
tinued, “I lived in Georgia, and somebody else 
lived there too, who to me meant Georgia — 
meant America, meant Europe, Asia, and 
Africa, and all the little islands thrown in, and 
I expected some day to marry him. I never 
did anything in moderation — I loved or hated 
with my whole heart, and every particle of love 
that was in me I gave — to him. 

“Well — it isn’t a new story or an interesting 
one particularly. We quarreled one night, 
quarreled bitterly. I was hot and unreason- 
able, he proud and impatient, and we separated. 
Soon after that he went away and I learned 
later that he had gone to South Africa. I have 
never seen him, never heard from him but once 
from that night to this, and I never expect now 
to see him again, but if I married any other 
man it would be with his image in my heart. 

“After my aunt’s death I found among her 
letters one from him. It was unopened, but 
she had kept it from me, as she did not approve 
of our marriage. Had I received it he would 
never have gone away.” Her voice was bitter, 
but she controlled it bravely. “I tell you this 
because I have no heart to give to any man, and 
I would not insult Laurie by compromising 
with friendship. And now — you understand.” 

Her voice died away and the stillness was 
broken only by the sputtering of the logs upon 


312 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


the hearth, and for a while Portia dared not 
speak. She tried to, but words would not 
come, and her hands were held tightly together 
to hide their trembling, and Elizabeth saw that 
she was quivering as from the opening of an 
old, old wound. 

“Perhaps I should not have told you,” and 
her voice shook badly; “but I wanted you to 
know, and it is all right now. You see I can 
talk about it, and perhaps it is better as it is, 
after all.” 

Portia turned to her and held her hands out 
yearningly. 

“But I have been so selfish,” she said 
brokenly — “so selfish! I have thought that I 
alone had to live on the memory of other days, 
and you have been so bright and brave, and 
with this burden in your heart ! Oh, Elizabeth, 
I did not know — I did not know !” 

Her voice broke entirely, and Elizabeth 
stooping over kissed her quietly. 

“You see, dear,” and she laughed unstead- 
ily — “you see that spinsterhood has been thrust 
upon us, and you see also how important it is 
that we make our calling and election sure.” 

She hesitated and her next words were 
almost a sob — 

“You will not speak to me again of marry- 
ing, Portia? — you understand now?” 

Portia’s lips were trembling. 

“Yes, I understand,” she answered; “with all 
my heart I understand.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


New Year’s Eve had come, and all the world 
seemed waiting for the breathing out of the old 
year and the breathing in of the new. So 
subtle was the process by which the birth of 
the one followed the death of the other that 
only the human heart understood the greeting 
and farewell of each ; but nevertheless all nature 
was solemnly still, as if the weight of remem- 
brance was as yet stronger than the joy of 
anticipation. 

The moon rose clear and bright over the hills 
and threw its brilliant light on the glistening, 
snow-covered earth; and the trees, all crusted 
with crystals, swung and shook under the north 
wind’s breath — and all the world seemed wait- 
ing, waiting. 

Inside, by the library fire, Livingston and 
Virginia sat in silence. For a long time they 
had been talking, and though with fine control, 
each felt that the strain was becoming intoler- 
able and each glanced occasionally at the clock 
as if they would hasten the death of the old 
year and hurry the birth of the new. 

Virginia had told Livingston of her visit to 
his former wife, and he in turn had told her 


3*4 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


that from Charlotte he had learned that day 
that Mrs. Grey would shortly leave for the 
South. 

“She is really ill,” Charlotte had said to him ; 
“and so unreasonable and irritable that no one 
will stay with her, and somehow I can’t desert 
her now. She has lost most of her money — 
gambled it away or invested it badly, and is 
terribly in debt, and what the end of it all will 
be, God in heaven only knows.” 

All this Livingston had spoken of quietly to 
Virginia, but what he did not tell her was that, 
having bound Charlotte to secrecy, he had de- 
posited to her credit a sum sufficient to cover 
Mrs. Grey’s indebtedness and to supply the lat- 
ter with all needed comforts and necessary lux- 
uries. 

It was a piece of wrecked womanhood whose 
life was slowly flickering out, and, like Vir- 
ginia, a strange pity for the wasted life possess- 
ed him, and he was willing to do anything that 
could lessen the relentlessness of its ending — 
except to see her. That he would not do. 

The fire burned low and the clock on the 
mantel struck the half-hour. In a few more 
minutes the year which had given so much, 
denied so much, would soon be past, and what 
the new year would bring they could not even 
guess. 

Virginia glanced across at Livingston and 
saw that he was lost in some far-away 
thought. Was it of the future which was 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 315 

stretching out so indefinitely? or was it of the 
past which made the future so uncertain? 

He felt her eyes upon him, and with a start 
rose to his feet. 

“Come,” he said quietly, “come out and 
listen to the bells.” 

He took the long, white cloak from the chair 
nearest him and put it around her, and as its 
soft, warm folds fell to her feet he drew in his 
breath sharply. She was so beautiful — so 
beautiful ! and in the sight of God she was his, 
and yet for the sake of the love he bore her he 
would not so much as kiss the hem of her gar- 
ment. 

They went out on the veranda and stood for 
a while under the spell of the scene that 
stretched before them, and presently Livingston 
turned toward her. 

“It has brought you sorrow,” he said ; “it has 
brought you suffering and sorrow, and yet if 
jou could would you blot out the remembrance 
of the year that is almost dead, Virginia?” 

“Not for anything life gives,” she answered 
quickly. Her face flamed richly and she held 
her hands out to him with the old winsome 
frankness of their first days. “I shall always 
thank God for this year, no matter what the 
coming years hold for me,” she said unsteadily, 
“for it has shown me the richness of life, as 
well as the meaning of its pain and privation.” 

He lifted the hands he held in his to his lips, 
but said nothing, and in the distance they heard 


316 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


the soft sobbing of the bells in the village below. 

“Sometimes I am afraid of myself — Jona- 
than.” 

Her voice was very low, but as he heard his 
name for the first time from her lips he quiv- 
ered at the sound and kept his eyes turned from 
her lest she should see their light. 

“Sometimes I am afraid, for I know the old 
questions will come back and mock me with 
doubt and distrust. And as I have often asked 
myself before, I shall often ask myself again, 
perhaps — is it worth while ? Is anything 
worth while save to live and love ? Why should 
I, when life is so short, deny myself — deny 
you — the happiness, the comradeship we both 
so crave? But it is because life is so short that 
I dare not trifle with its realities — or its ideals.” 

She looked at him almost appealingly, but as 
he leaned against the railing his eyes were still 
turned from her. He honored her for her 
point of view; he accepted it; but he did not 
agree with it, and yet by no word or act would 
he now attempt to alter it, for its sincerity and 
purity were the deepest convictions of his heart. 

“And still,” she went on presently, “when I 
have been most tempted not to believe in my- 
self, I have been tormented by that other 
thought. Suppose I do yield? Would I gain 
happiness at the price I would have to pay 
for it?” 

The bells in the village ceased, and all nature 
waited in reverent hush for the old year’s dying 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


breath, and only Virginia’s words broke the 
solemn stillness. 

“I do not believe it, Jonathan,” and her voice 
was clear and full again, “for happiness is too 
tender a thing to live unworthily. My courage 
is not always strong nor my endurance great, 
but I know to-night, and I pray God I may 
always remember, that it is worth while to 
reach out after those things which make for 
better, sweeter, purer living. Perhaps,” and 
now her voice was full of a great wistfulness 
that well nigh unnerved him — “perhaps I have 
dreamed dreams in an age too self-indulgent to 
let them ever come true, but I have no right to 
even hope that life will be more and more beau- 
tiful unless I am willing to do my part in try- 
ing to make it so. And if I, and others like 
me, treat these things lightly, how will the care- 
less, thoughtless, idle world look at them after 
a while? If it were only you and I, it would 
not matter so much, perhaps ; but we are telling 
all the world to do likewise if they so desire — 
and I dare not — I dare not send such a message 
to the world !” 

Livingston’s head bent lower, but still he said 
nothing. For a moment longer there was still- 
ness, and then the bells rang joyously — and 
they knew the year was dead. 

Livingston moved from the railing against 
which he had been leaning, and took Virginia’s 
hands in his. 


WHEN LOVE IS LOVE 


318 

“The message you send to the world is the 
message God meant all women to send, Vir- 
ginia,” he said a little unsteadily. “It is a 
message for men to be better men, and I would 
to God I were more ready to receive it. Some 
day, perhaps, I may see this as you do, but as 
yet I am in darkness — I do not see it yet. You 
have taught me, however,” and the gentleness 
of his voice caressed her richly, “that if love be 
love it will stand all strain, endure all tests — if 
love be love. And ours, Virginia — our love — ?” 

There was no faltering in the face she raised 
to his. 

“Is love,” she said bravely. “Our love — is 
love.” 











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